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T. T. SCOTT, Pre*. MALCOLM REISS, Mgr. Ed. W. SCOTT PEACOCK, Ed.

PLAm STORiBS' OFF-TRAU HOVEL
THE JEWEL OF BAS . Leigh Brackett 3

An eerie tale of a boy-Cod sleeping through eternity on a world he had
created with his Stone of Destiny; of the Androids he had created and their
diabolic plan for destroying that world — and of two mortals trying vainly to
battle for a doomed planet and to stop the immortals’ plans.

A THRItUHG HOVEL OF AH AUEH WORLD

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF-MOON Nelson S. Bond 72

Marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed, the members of the
pleasure cruise had to exist on a hostile world. And the man who assumed com-
mand was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary — whose only adventures had
come through the vicarious thrills found in the printed pages of a book.

FiVE POWERFUL PLAHET SHORT STORIES

THE AVENGER Stuart Fleming 31

Karson was fighting fire with fire — ^paving the way for a holocaust.

THE MONSTER MAKER Ray Bradbury 39

A camera is one devil of a poor weapon with which to capture a pirate’s fortress.

SABOTEUR OF SPACE Robert Abernathy 48

A coward and a murderous martyr had one purpose — “Murder Dying Earth.”

QUEST’S END Basil Wells 65

Thig’s work was not yet finished — he must face his vicious master race again.

AND THE GODS LAUGHED Fredric Brown 105

The space lie was so good it might have been true. — Might have been?

P. S/s DEPARTMEHTS

THE RINGER FAMILY Guy Gifford 64

P.S.’8 FEATURE FLASH 113

Meet Chad Oliver, a fan who knows his ins and outs of the Vizigraph.

THE VIZIGRAPH 114

The interplanetary melting pot of grieves and gripes, pleas and commands — ^where
the cash customer earns his money’s worth.

Cover design by Ingels

Spring Issue, 1944
Volume H, No. 6

20c per copy

THIS IS A FICTION HOUSE MAGAZINE

PLANET STORIES: Published quarterly by Love Romances Pub. Co., Inc., 461 Eighth- Ave., New York City.
The entire contents of this magazine are copyrighted, 1943, by Love Romances Publishing Co., Inc. All rights re-
served While due care is always exercised, the publishers will not be responsible for the return of unsolicited manu-
rates address THE NEWSSTAND FICTION UNIT, 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York City.
Printed in U. S. A.

scripts. For advertising ;

S^lct/net ^ 0a/e

THE JEWEL OF BAS

There was a boy-God, sleeping
through eternity. And there were
his ‘‘Stone of Life’’ and the an-
droids he had created of matter
and energy. And there was a world
that was to die from the machina-
tions of the androids’ diabolic
minds. There were Mouse and
Ciaran to stem the death-flood—
two mortals fighting the immor-
tals’ plans for conquest.

A WEIRD NOVEL OF FASCINATING

POWER

by

LEIGH BRACKETT

THE JEWEL OF BAS

By LEIGH BRACKETT

M ouse stirred the stew in the small
iron pot. There wasn’t much of
it. She sniffed and said :

“You could have stolen a bigger joint.
We’ll go hungry before the next town.”
“Uh huh,” Ciaran grunted lazily.

Anger began to curl in Mouse’s eyes.

“I suppose it’s all right with you if we
run out of food,” she said sullenly.

Ciaran leaned back comfortably against
a moss-grown boulder and watched her
with lazy grey eyes. He liked watching
Mouse. She was a head shorter than he,
which made her very short indeed, and as

4

Illustration by Ingels

6 PLANET

thin as a young girl. Her hair was black
and wild, as though only wind ever combed
it. Her eyes were black, too, and very
bright There was a small red thief’s
brand between them. She wore a ragged
crimson tunic, and her bare arms and
legs were as brown as his own.

Ciaran grinned. His lip was scarred,
and there was a tooth missing behind it.
He said, “It’s just as well. I don’t want
you getting fat and lazy.’’

Mouse, who was sensitive about her
thinness, said something pungent* and
threw the wooden plate at him. Ciaran
drew his shaggy head aside enough to
let it by and then relaxed, stroking the
harp on his bare brown knees. It began
to purr softly.

Ciaran felt good. The heat of the sun-
balls that floated always, lazy in a red-
dish sky, made him pleasantly sleepy. And
after the clamor and crush of the market
squares in the border towns, the huge
high silence of the place was wonderful.

He and Mouse were camped on a tongue
of land that licked out from the Phrygian
hills down into the coastal plains of At-
lantea. A short cut, but only gypsies like
themselves ever took it. To Ciaran’s left,
far below, the sea spread sullen and burn-
ing, cloaked in a reddish fog.

To his right, also far below, were the
Ferbidden Plains. Flat, desolate, and bar-
ren, reaching away and away to the up-
curving rim of the world, where Ciaran’s
sharp eyes could just make out a glint
of gold ; a mammoth peak reaching for the
sky.

Mouse said suddenly, “Is that it, Kiri?
Ben Beatha, the Mountain of Life,’’

Ciaran struck a shivering chord from
the harp. “That’s it.’’

“Let’s eat,’’ said Mouse.

“Scared?”

“Maybe you want me to go back ! Maybe
you think a branded thief isn’t good enough
for you! Well I can’t help where I was
born or what my parents were — and you’d
have a brand on your ugly face too, if
you hadn’t just been lucky!”

She threw the ladle.

This time her aim was better and Ciaran
didn’t duck quite in time. It clipped his
ear. He sprang up, looking murderous,
and started to heave it back at her. And
then, suddenly. Mouse was crying, stamp-

STORtES

ing up and down and blinking tears out
of her eyes.

“All right. I’m scared! I’ve never been
out of a city before, and besides . . .” She
looked out over the silent plain, to the
distant glint of Ben Beatha. “Besides,”
she whispered! “I keep thinking of the
stories they used to tell — about Bas the
Immortal, and his androids, and the grey
beasts that served them. And about the
Stone of Destiny.”

C IARAN made a contemptuous mouth.

“Legends. Old wive’s tales. Songs
to give babies a pleasant shiver.” A small
glint of avarice came into his grey eyes.
“But the Stone of Destiny — it’s a nice
story, that one. A jewel of such power
that owning it gives a man rule over the
whole world . .

He squinted out across the barren plain.
“Some day,” he said softly, “maybe I’ll
see if that one’s true.”

“Oh, Kiri.” Mouse came and caught his
wrists in her small strong hands. “You
wouldn’t. It’s forbidden — ^and no one that’s
gone into the Forbidden Plains has ever
come back.”

“There’s always a first time.” He
grinned. “But I’m not going now, Mousie.
I’m too hungry.”

She picked up the plate silently and
ladled stew into it and set it down. Ciaran
laid his harp down and stretched — a tough,
wiry little man with legs slightly bandy
and a good-natured hard face. He wore
a yellow tunic even more ragged than
Mouse’s.

They sat down. Ciaran ate noisily with
his fingers. Mouse fished out a hunk of
meat and nibbled it moodily. A breeze
came up, pushing the sun-balls around a
little and bringing tatters of red fog in
off the sea. After a while Mouse said :

“Did you hear any of the talk in the
market squares, Kiri?”

He shrugged. “They gabble. I don’t
waste my time with it.”

“All along the border countries they
were saying the same thing. People who
live or work along the edge of the For-
bidden Plains have disappeared. Whole
towns of them, sometimes.”

“One man falls into a beast-pit,” said
Ciaran impatiently, “and in two weeks

THE JEWEL OF BAS

of gossip the whole country has vanished.
Forget it.”

“But it’s happened before, Kiri. A long
time ago . .

“A long time ago some wild tribe liv-
ing on the Plains came in and got tough,
and that’s that!” Ciaran wiped his hands
on the grass and said angrily, “If you’re
going to nag all the time about being
scared . .

He caught the plate out of her hands
just in time. She was breathing hard,
glaring at him. She looked like her name,
and cute as hell. Ciaran laughed.

“Come here, you.”

She came, sulkily. He pulled her down
beside him and kissed her and took the
harp on his knees. Mouse put her head
on his shoulder. Ciaran was suddenly
very happy.

H e began to draw music out of the
harp. There was a lot of distance
around him, and he tried to fill it up with
music, a fine free spate of it out of the
thrumming strings. Then he sang. He had
a beautiful voice, clear and true as a new
blade, but soft. It was a simple tune,
about two people in love. Ciaran liked it.

After a while Mouse reached up and
drew his head around, stroking the scar
on his lip so he had to stop singing. She
wasn’t glaring any longer. Ciaran bent
his head.

His eyes were closed. But he felt her
body stiffen against him, and her lips
broke away from his with a little gasping
cry.

“Kiri — Kiri, look!”

He jerked his head back, angry and
startled. Then the anger faded.

There was a different quality to the
light. The warm, friendly, reddish sun-
light that never dimmed or faded.

There was a shadow spreading out in
the sky' over Ben Beatha. It grew and wid-
ened, and the sunballs went out, one by
one, and darkness came toward them over
the Forbidden Plaints.

They crouched, clinging together, not
speaking, not breathing. An uneasy breeze
sighed over them, moving out. Then, after
a long time, the sunballs sparked and
burned again, and the shadow was gone.

Ciaran dragged down an unsteady
breath. He was sweating, but where

his hands and Mouse’s touched, locked to-
gether, they were cold as death.

“What was it, Kiri?”

“I don’t know.” He got up, slinging
the harp across his back without thinking
about it. He felt naked suddenly, up
there on the high ridge. Stripped and un-
safe. He pulled Mouse to her feet. Neither
of them spoke again. Their eyes had a
queer stunned look.

This time it was Ciaran that stopped,
with the stewpot in his hands, looking
at something behind Mouse. He dropped
it and jumped in front of her, pulling the
wicked knife he carried from his girdle.
The last thing he heard was her wild
scream.

But he had time enough to see. To see
the creatures climbing up over the crest
of the ridge beside them, fast and silent
and grinning, to ring them in with wands
tipped at the point with opals like tiny
sunballs.

They were no taller than Mouse, but
thick and muscular, built like men. Grey
animal fur grew on them like the body-
hair of a hairy man, lengthening into a
coarse mane over the skull. Where the
skin showed it was grey and wrinkled and
tough.

Their faces were flat, with black ani-
mal nose-buttons. They had sharp teeth,
grey with a bright, healthy greyness. Their
eyes were blood-pink, without whites or
visible pupils.

The eyes were the worst.

Ciaran yelled and slashed out with his
knife. One of the grey brutes danced in
on lithe, quick feet and touched him on
the neck with its jeweled wand.

Fire exploded in Ciaran’s head, and
then there was darkness, pierced by
Mouse’s scream. As he slid down into it
he thought:

“They’re Kalds. The beasts of legend
that served Bas the Immortal and his an-
droids. Kalds, that guarded the For-
bidden Plains from man!”

Ciaran came to, on his feet and walk-
ing. From the way he felt he’d been
walking a long time, but his memory was
vague and confused. He had been re-
lieved of his knife, but his harp was still
with him.

Mouse walked beside him. Her black
hair hung over her face and her eyes

8 PLANET

looked out from behind it, sullen and
defiant.

The grey beasts walked in a rough cir-
cle around them, holding their wands
ready. From the way they grinned, Ciaran
had an idea they hoped they’d have an
excuse for using them.

With a definitely uneasy shock, Ciaran
realized that they were far out in the
barren waste of the Forbidden Plains.

He got a little closer to Mouse.
“Hello.”

She looked at him. “You and your short
cuts! So all that talk in the border towns
was just gabble, huh?”

“So it’s my fault! If that isn’t just
like a woman. ...” Ciaran made an im-
patient gesture. “All right, all right !
That doesn’t matter now. What does mat-
ter is where are we going and why?”

“How should I — Wait a minute.
We’re stopping.”

The Kalds warned them with their
wands to stand. One of the grey brutes
seemed to be listening to something that
Ciaran couldn’t hear. Presently it ges-
tured and the party started off again in
a slightly different direction.

After a minute or two a gully appeared
out of nowhere at their feet. From up
on the ridge the Forbidden Plains had
looked perfectly flat, but the gully was
fairly wide and cut in clean like a sword
gash, hidden by a slight roll of the land.
They scrambled down the steep bank and
went along the bottom.

Again with an uneasy qualm, Ciaran
realized they were headed in the general
direction of Ben Beatha.

The old legends had been gradually lost
in the stream of time, except to people who
cared for such things, or made a living
from singing about them, like Ciaran. But
in spite of that Ben Beatha was tabu.

The chief reason was physical. The
Plains, still called Forbidden, ringed the
mountain like a protective wall, and it was
an indisputable fact whether you liked it
or not that people who went out onto them
didn’t come back. Hunger, thirst, wild
beasts, or devils — ^they didn’t come back.
That discouraged a lot of traveling.

Besides, the only reason for attempt-
ing to reach Ben Beatha was the legend
of the Stone of Destiny, and people had
long ago lost faith in that. Notx^y had

STORIES

seen it. Nobody had seen Bas the Im-
mortal who was its god and guardian, nor
the androids that were his servants, nor
the Kalds that were slaves to both of them.

Long, long ago people were supposed
to have seen them. In the beginning, ac-
cording to the legends, Bas the Immortal
had lived in a distant place — a green
world where there was only one huge sun-
ball that rose and set regularly, where the
sky was sometimes blue and sometimes
black and silver, and where the horizon
curved down. The manifest idiocy of all
that still tickled people so they liked to
hear songs about it.

Somewhere on that green world, some-
how, Bas had acquired the flaming stone
that gave him the power of life and death
and destiny. There were a lot of con-
flicting and confused stories about trouble
between Bas and the inhabitants of the
funny world with the sky that changed
like a woman’s fancy. Eventually he was
supposed to have gathered up a lot of
these inhabitants through the power of the
stone and transported them somehow across
a great distance to the world where they
now lived.

C IARAN had found that children loved
these yams particularly. Their
imaginations were still elastic enough not
to see the ridiculous side. He always
gave the Distance Cycle a lot of schmaltz.

So after Bas the Immortal and his Stone
of Destiny had got all these people settled
in a new world, Bas created his androids,
Khafre and Steud, and brought the Kalds
from somewhere out in that vague Dis-
tance ; another world, perhaps. And there
were wars and revolts and raiding par-
ties, and bitter struggles between Bas and
the androids and the humans for power,
with Bas always winning because of the
Stone. There was a bottomless well of
material there for ballads. Ciaran used it
frequently.

But the one legend that had always
maintained its original shape under the bat-
tering or generations was the one about
Ben Beatha, the Mountain of Life, being
the dwelling place of Bas the Immortal and
his androits and the Kalds. And some-
where under Ben Beatha was the Stone,
whose possession could give a man life

THE JEWEL OF BAS

eternal and the powers of whatever god
you chose to believe in.

Ciaran had toyed with that one in spite
of his skepticism. Now it looked as
though he was going to see for himself.

He looked at the Kalds, the creatiu-es
who didn’t exist, and foimd his skepticism
shaken. Shaken so hard he felt sick with
it, like a man waking up to find a night-
mare beside him in the flesh, booting his
guts in.

If the Kalds were real, the androids were
real. From the androids you went to Bas,
and from Bas to the Stone of Destiny.

Ciaran began to sweat with sheer ex-
citement.

Mouse jerked her head up suddenly.
“Kiri— listen!”

From somewhere up ahead and to the
right there began to come a rhytlimic,
swinging clank of metal. Underneath it
Ciaran made out the shuffle of bare or
sandalled feet.

The Kalds urged them on faster with
the jewel-tipped wands. The hot opales-
cence of the tips struck Ciaran all at once.
A jewel-fire that could shock a man to
imconsciousness like the blow of a fist,
just by touching.

The power of the Stone, perhaps. The
Stone of Destiny, sleeping under Ben
Beatha.

The shuffle and clank got louder. Quite
suddenly they came to a place where the
gully met another one almost at right
angles, and stopped. The ears of the Kalds
twitched nervously.

Mouse shrank in closer against Ciaran.
She was looking off down the new cut.
Ciaran looked, too.

There were Kalds coming toward them.
About forty of them, with wands. Walk-
ing between their watchful lines were some
ninety or a hundred humans, men and
women, shackled together by chains run
through loops in iron collars. They were
so close together they had to lock-step,
and any attempt at attacking their guards
would have meant the whole column falling
flat.

Mouse said, with vicious clarity, “One
man falls into a beast pit, and in three
weeks of gossip a whole town is gone.
Hah!”

Ciaran’s scarred mouth got ugly. “Keep
going, Mousie. Just keep it up.” He

9

scowled at the slave gang and added, “But
what the hell is it all about ? What do they
want Us for?”

“You’ll find out,” said Mouse. “You
and your short cuts.”

Ciaran raised his hand. Mouse ducked
and started to swing on him. A couple
of Kalds moved in and touched them
apart, very delicately, with the wands.
They didn’t want knockouts this time. Just
local numbness.

Ciaran was feeling murderous enough
to start something anyway, but a second
flick of the wand on the back of his neck
took the starch out of him. By that time
the slave party had come up and stopped.

Ciaran stumbled over into line and let
the Kalds lock the collar around his neck.
The man in front of him was huge, with a
mane of red hair and cords of muscle
on his back the size of Ciaran’s arm. He
hadn’t a stitch on but a leather G-string.
His freckled, red-haired skin was slippery
with sweat. Ciaran, pressed up against
him, shut his mouth tight and began to
breathe very hard with his face turned as
far away as he could get it.

They shackled Mouse right in back of
him. She put her arms around his waist,
tighter than she really had to. Ciaran
squeezed her hands.

II

T he kalds started the line moving
again, using the wands like ox-goads.
They shuffled off down the gulley, going
deeper and deeper into the Forbidden
Plains.

Very softly, so that nobody but Ciaran
could hear her, Mouse whispered, “These
locks are nothing. I can pick them any
time.”

Ciaran squeezed her hand again. It.
occurred to him that Mouse was a handy
girl to have around.

After a while she said, “Kiri — that
shadow. We did see it?”

“We did.” He shivered in spite of
himself.

“What was it?”

“How should I know? And you bet-
ter save your breath. Looks like a long
walk ahead of us.”

It was. They threaded their way
through a growing maze of cracks in the

PLANET STORIES

10

plain, cracks that got deeper and deeper,
so you had to look straight up to see the
red sky and the little floating suns. Ciaran
found himself watching furtively to make
sure they were still shining. He wished
Mousie hadn’t reminded him of the
shadow. He’d never been closer to cold,
clawing panic than in those moments on
the ridge.

The rest of the slave gang had obvi-
ously come a long way already. They were
tired. But the Raids goaded them on,
and it wasn’t until about a third of the
line was being held up bodily by those
in front or behind that a halt was called.

They came to a fairly-wide place where
three of the gullies came together. The
Raids formed the line into a circle,
squeezed in on itself so they were prac-
tically sitting in each other’s laps, and
then stood by watchfully, lolling pink
tongues over their bright grey teeth and
letting the wands flash in the dimmed light.

Ciaran let his head and shoulders roll
over onto Mousie. For some time he had
felt her hands working around her own
collar, covered by her hair and the harp
slung across his back. She wore a rather
remarkable metal pin that had other func-
tions than holding her tunic on, and she
knew how to use it.

Her collar was still in place, but he knew
she could slide out of it now any time she
wanted. She bent forward over him as
though she was exhausted. Her black hair
fell over his face and neck. Under it
her small quick hands got busy.

The lock snapped quietly, and the huge
red-haired man collapsed slowly on top of
Ciaran. His voice whispered, but there
was. nothing weak about it.

He said, “Now me.”

Ciaran squirmed and cursed. The vast
weight crushed him to silence.

“I’m a hunter. I can hear a rabbit
breathing in its warren. I heard the woman
speak. Free me or I’ll make trouble.”

Ciaran sighed resignedly, and Mouse
went to work.

C IARAN looked around the circle of
exhausted humans. Charcoal burn-
ers, trappers, hoop - shavers — the lean,
tough, hard-bitten riff-raff of the border
wilderness. Even the women were tough.
Ciaran began to get ideas.

There was a man crushed up against
them on the other side — the man who had
hitherto been at the head of the column.
He was tall and stringy like a hungry
cat, and just as mean looking, hunched
over his knees with his face buried in his
forearms and a shag of iron-grey hair fall-
ing over his shoulders.

Ciaran nudged him. “You — don’t make
any sign. Game to take a chance?”

The shaggy head turned slightly, just
enough to unveil an eye. Ciaran wished
suddenly he’d kept his mouth shut. The
eye was pale, almost white, with a queer
unhuman look as though it saw only gods
or devils, and nothing in between.

Ciaran had met hermits before in his
■wanderings. He knew the signs. Normally
he rather liked hermits, but this one gave
him unpleasant qualms in the stomach.

The man dragged a rusty voice up from
somewhere. “We are enslaved by devils.
Only the pure can overcome devils. Are
you pure?”

Ciaran managed not to choke. “As a
bird in its nest,” he said. “A newly-
fledged bird. In fact, a bird still in the
shell.”

The cold, pale eye looked at him with-
out blinking.

Ciaran resisted an impulse to punch it
and said, “We have a means of freeing our-
selves. If enough could be freed, when
the time came we might rush the Raids.”

“Only the pure can prevail against
devils.”

Ciaran gave him a sn;ile of beatific in-
nocence. The scar and the missing tooth
rather spoiled the effect, but his eyes made
up for it in bland sweetness.

“You shall lead us. Father,” he cooed.
“With such purity as yours, we can’t fail.”

The hermit thought about that for a
moment and then said, “I will pass the
word. Give me the feke.”

Ciaran’s jaw dropped. His eyes got
glassy.

“The feke,” said the hermit patiently.
“The jiggler.”

Ciaran closed his eyes. “Mouse,” he
said weakly, “give the gentleman the pick-
lock.”

Mouse slid it to him, a distance of about
two inches. The red-haired giant took
some of his weight off Ciaran. Mouse
was looking slightly dazed herself.

THE ^EWEL OF BAS 11

“Hadn’t I better do it for you?” she
asked, rather pompously.

The hermit gave her a cold glance. He
bent his head and brought his hands up
between his knees. His collar mate on the
other side never noticed a thing, and the
hermit beat Mouse’s time by a good third.

Ciaran laughed. He lay in Mouse’s lap
and had mild hysterics. Mouse cuffed him
furiously across the back of his neck, and
even that didn’t stop him.

He pulled himself up, looked through
streaming eyes at Mouse’s murderous small
face, and bit his knuckles to keep from
screaming.

The hermit was already quietly at work
on the man next him.

Ciaran unslung his harp. The grey
Kalds hadn’t noticed anything yet. Both
Mouse and the hermit were very smooth
workers. Ciaran plucked out a few
sonorous minor chords, and the Kalds
flicked their blood-pink eyes at him, but
didn’t seem to think the harp called for
any action.

Ciaran relaxed and played louder.

Under cover ot the music he explained
his plan to the big red hunter, who nodded
and began whispering to his other collar-
mate. Ciaran began to sing.

He gave them a lament, one of the wild
dark things the Cimmerians sing at the bier
of a chief and very appropriate to the
occasion. The Kalds lounged, enjoying the
rest. They weren’t watching for it, so
they didn’t sec, as Ciaran did, the breath-
ing of the word of hope around the circle.

C IVILIZED people would have given
the show away. But these were
bordermen, as wary and self-contained as
animals. It was only in their eyes that
you could see anything. They got busy,
under cover of their huddled bodies and
long-haired, bowed-over heads, with every
buckle and pin they could muster.

Mouse and the hermit passed instructions
along the line, and since they were people
who were used to using their hands with
skill, it seemed as though a fair number
of locks might get picked. The collars
were left carefully in place.

Ciaran finished his lament and was half
way through another when the Kalds de-
cided it was time to go.

They moved in to goad the line back into

position. Ciaran’s harp crashed out sud-
denly in angry challenge, and the close-
packed circle split into a furious confusion.

Ciaran slung his harp over his shoulder
and sprang up, shaking off the collar.
All around him was the clash of chain
metal on rock, the scuffle of feet, the yells
and heavy breathing of angry men. The
Kalds came leaping in, their wands flashing.
Somebody screamed. Ciaran got a fistful
of Mouse’s tunic in his left hand and
started to butt through the melee. He had
lost track of the hermit and the hunter.

Then, quite suddenly, it was dark.

Silence closed down on the gully. A
black, frozen silence, with not even a sound
of breathing in it. Ciaran stood still, look-
ing up at the dark sky. He didn’t even
tremble. He was beyond that.

Black darkness, in a land of eternal
light.

Somewhere then, a woman screamed
with a terrible mad strength, and heU
broke loose.

Ciaran ran. He didn’t think about where
he was going, only that he had to get away.
He was still gripping Mouse. Bodies
thrashed and blundered and shrieked in the
darkness. Twice he and Mouse were
knocked kicking. It didn’t stop them.

They broke through finally into a clear
space. There began to be light again, pale
and feeble at first but flickering back
toward normal. They were in a broad
gully kicked smooth on the bottom by the
passing of many feet. They ran down it.

After a while Mouse fell and Ciaran
dropped beside her. He lay there, fighting
for breath, twitching and jerking like an
animal wdth sheer panic. He was crying a
little because it was light again.

Mouse clung to him, pressing tight as
though she wanted to merge her body with
his and hide it. She had begun to shake.

“Kiri,” she whispered, over and over
again. “Kiri, what was it ?”

Ciaran held her head against his shoul-
der and stroked it. “I don’t know, honey.
But it’s all right now. It’s gone.”

Gone. But it could come back. It had
once. Maybe next time it would
stay.

Darkness, and the sudden cold.

The legends began crawling through
Ciaran’s mind. If Bas the Immortal was
true, and the Stone of Destiny was true.

12 PLANET

and the Stone gave Bas power over the
life and death of a world . . . then . . . ?

Maybe Bas was getting tired of the
world and wanted to throw it away.

The rational stubbornness in man that
says a thing is not because it’s never been
before helped Ciaran steady down. But
he couldn’t kid himself that there hadn’t
been darkness where no darkness had even
been dreamed of before.

He shook his head and started to pull
Mouse to her feet, and then his quick
ears caught the sound of someone com-
ing toward them, running. Several some-
ones.

There was no place to hide. Ciaran
got Mouse behind him and waited, half
crouching.

It was the hunter, with the hermit lop-
ing like a stringy cat at his heels and a
third man behind them both. They all
looked a little crazy, and they didn’t seem
to be going to stop.

Ciaran said, “Hey!”

T hey slowed down looking at him with
queer, blank eyes. Ciaran blew up,
because he had to relax somehow.

“It’s all over now. What are you scared
of? It’s gone.” He cursed them, with
more feeling than fairness. “What about
the Kalds? What happened back there?”

The hunter wiped a huge hand across
his red-bearded face. “Everybody went
crazy,” he said thickly. “Some got killed
or hurt. Some got away, like us. The
rest were caught again.” He jerked his
head back. “They’re coming this way.
They’re hunting us. They hunt by scent,
the grey beasts do.”

“Then we’ve got to get going.” Ciaran
turned around. “Mouse. You, Mousie!
Snap out of it, honey. It’s all right now.”

She shivered and choked over her breath,
and the hermit fixed them both with pale,
mad eyes.

“It was a warning,” he said. “A portent
of judgment, when only the pure shall be
saved.” He pointed a bony finger at
Ciaran. “I told you that evil could not
prevail against devils!”

That got through to Mouse. Sense came
back into her black eyes. She took a step
toward the hermit and let go.

“Don’t you call him evil — or me either!
We’ve never hurt anybody yet, beyond

STORIES

lifting a little food or a trinket. And
besides, who the hell are you to talk!
Anybody as handy with a picklock as you
are has had plenty of practice. . . .”

Mouse paused for breath, and Ciaran got
a look at the hermit’s face. His stomach
quivered. He tried to shut Mouse up, but
she was feeling better and beginning to
enjoy herself. She plunged into a de-
tailed analysis of the hermit’s physique
and heredity. She had a vivid and inven-
tive mind.

Ciaran finally got his hand over her
mouth, taking care not to get bitten. “Nice
going,” he said, “but we’ve got to get
out of here. You can finish later.”

She started to heel his shins, and then
quite suddenly she stopped and stiffened
up under his hands. She was looking at
the hermit. Ciaran looked, too. His in-
sides knotted, froze, and began to do
tricks.

The hermit said quietly, “You are fin-
ished now.” His pale eyes held them, and
there was nothing human about his gaze,
or the cold calm of his voice.

“You are evil. You are thieves — and I
know, for I was a thief myself. You have
the filth of the world on you, and no wish
to clean it off.”

He moved toward them. It was hardly
a step, hardly more than an inclination
of the body, but Ciaran gave back be-
fore it.

“I killed a man. I took a life in sin
and anger, and now I have made my
peace. You have not. You will not. And
if need comes, I can kill again — without
remorse.”

He could, too. There was nothing
ludicrous about him now. He was stating
simple fact, and the dignity of him was
awesome. Ciaran scowled down at the
dust.

“Hell,” he said, “we’re sorry. Father.
Mouse has a quick tongue, and we’ve both
had a bad scare. She didn’t mean it. We
respect any man’s conscience.”

There was a cold, hard silence, and then
the third man cried out with a sort of
subdued fury:

“Let’s go! Do you want to get caught
again ?”

He was a gnarled, knotty, powerful lit-
tle man, beginning to grizzle but not to
slow down. He wore a kilt of skins. His

THE JEWEL OF BAS 13

hide was dark and tough as leather, his
hazel eyes set in nests of wrinkles.

The hunter, who had been hearing noth-
ing but noises going back and forth over
his head, turned and led off down the gully.
The others followed, still not speaking.

Ciaran was thinking. He’s crazy. He's
clear off his head — and of all the things we
didn’t need, a crazy hermit heads the list!

There was a cold spot between his
shoulders that wouldn’t go away even when
he started sweating with exertion.

T he gully was evidently a main
trail to Somewhere. There were
many signs of recent passage by a lot of
people, including an occasional body kicked
off to the side and left to dry.

The little knotty man, who was a trap-
per named Ram, examined the bodies with
a terrible stony look in his eyes.

“My wife and my first son,” he said
briefly. “The grey beasts took them while
I was gone.”

He turned grimly away.

Ciaran was glad when the bodies proved
to be the wrong ones.

Ram and the big red hunter took turns
scaling the cleft walls for a look. Mouse
said something about taking to the face
of the Plain where they wouldn’t be
hemmed in. They looked at her grimly.

“The grey beasts are up there,” they
said. “Flanking us. If we go up, they’ll
only take us and chain us again.”

Ciaran’s heart took a big, staggering
jump. “In other words, they’re herding
us. We’re going the way they want us
to, so they don’t bother to round us up.”

The hunter nodded professionally. “Is
a good plan.”

“Oh, fine!” snarled Ciaran. “What I
want to know is, is there any way out?”
The hunter shrugged.

“I’m going on anyway,” said Ram. “My
wife and son. . . .”

Ciaran thought about the Stone of Des-
tiny, and was rather glad there was no
decision to make.

They went on, at an easy jog trot. By
bits and pieces Ciaran built up the pic-
ture — raiding gangs of Kalds coming
quietly onto isolated border villages, comb-
ing the brush and the forest for strag-
glers. Where they took the humans, or
why, nobody could guess.

froze to a dead stop. The others crouched
behind him, instinctively holding their
breath.

The hunter whispered, “People. Many
of them.” His flat palm made an emphatic
move for quiet.

Small cold prickles flared across Ciaran’s
skin. He found Mouse’s hand in his and
squeezed it. Suddenly, with no more voice
than the sigh of a breeze through bracken,
the hermit laughed.

“Judgment,” he whispered. “Great
things moving.” His pale eyes were fey.
“Doom and destruction, a shadow across
the world, a darkness and a dying.”

He looked at them one by one, and
threw his head back, laughing without
sound, the stringy cords working in his
throat.

“And of all of you, I alone have no
fear !”

They went on, slowly, moving without
sound in small shapeless puddles of shadow
thrown by thS floating sunballs. Ciaran
found himself almost in the lead, beside
the hunter.

They edged around a jog in the cleft
wall. About ten feet ahead of them the
cleft floor plunged underground, through
a low opening shored with heavy timbers.

There were two ICalds lounging in front
of it, watching their wands flash in the
light.

The five humans stopped. The Kalds
came toward them, almost lazily, running
rough grey tongues over their shiny teeth.
Their blood-pink eyes were bright with
pleasure.

Ciaran groaned. “This is it. Shall we
be brave, or just smart?”

The hunter cocked his huge fists. And
then Ram let go a queer animal moan.
He shoved past Ciaran and went to his
knees beside something Ciaran liadn’t no-
ticed before.

A woman lay awkwardly against the
base of the cliff. She was brown and
stringy and not very young, with a plain,
good face. A squat, thick-shouldered boy
sprawled almost on top of her. There was
a livid burn on the back of his neck. They
were both dead.

Ciaran thought probably the woman had
dropped from exhaustion, and the kid had
died fighting to save her. He felt sick.

Ram put a hand on each of their faces.

14 PLANET

His own was stony and quite blank. After
the first cry he didn’t make a sound.

He got up and went for the Kald nearest
to him.

Ill

H e did it like an animal, quick and
without thinking. The Kald was
quick, too. It jabbed the wand at Ram,
but the little brown man was coming so
fast that it didn’t stop him. He must have
died in mid-leap, but his body knocked the
Kald over and bore him down.

Ciaran followed him in a swift cat leap.
He heard the hunter grunting and snarl-
ing somewhere behind him, and the thud-
ding of bare feet being very busy. He
lost sight of the other Kald. He lost sight
of everything but a muscular grey arm
that was trying to pull a jewel-tipped wand
from under Ram’s corpse. There was a
terrible stink of burned flesh.

Ciaran grabbed the grey wrist. He
didn’t bother with it, or the arm. He slid
his grip up to the fingers, got his other
hand beside it, and started wrenching.

Bone cracked and split. Ciaran worked
desperately, from the thumb and the little
finger. Flesh tore. Splinters of grey bone
came through. Ciaran’s hands slipped in
the blood. The grey beast opened its
mouth, but no sound came. Ciaran decided
then the things were dumb. It was human
enough to sweat.

Ciaran grabbed the wand.

A grey paw, the other one, came clawing
for his throat around the bulk of Ram’s
shoulders. He flicked it with the wand.
It went away, and Ciaran speared the jewel
tip down hard against the Kald’s throat.

After a while Mouse’s voice came to
him from somewhere. “It’s done, Kiri.
No use overcooking it.”

It smelled done, all right. Ciaran got
up. He looked at the wand in his hand,
holding it away off. He whistled.

Mouse said, “Stop admiring yourself
and get going. The hunter says he can
hear chains.”

Ciaran looked around. The other Kald
lay on the ground. Its neck seemed to be
broken. The body of the squat, dark boy
lay on top of it. 'The hunter said ;

“He didn’t feel the wand. I think he’d

STORIES

be glad to be a club for killing one of
them, if he knew it.”

Ciaran said, “Yeah.” He looked at
Mouse. She seemed perfectly healthy.
“Aren’t women supposed to faint at things
like this?”

She snorted. “I was born in the
Thieves’ Quarter. We used to roll skulls
instead of pennies. They weren’t so
scarce.”

“I think,” said Ciaran, “the next time
I get married I’ll ask more questions.
Let’s go.”

They went down the ramp leading under
the Forbidden Plains. The hunter led,
like a wary beast. Ciaran brought up the
rear. They both carried the stolen wands.

The hermit hadn’t spoken a word, or
moved a hand to help.

It was fairly dark there underground,
but not cold. In fact, it was hotter than
outside, and got worse as they went down.
Ciaran could hear a sound like a hundred
armorers beating on shields. Only louder.
There was a feeling of a lot of people mov-
ing around but not talking much, and an
occasional crash or metallic screaming that
Ciaran didn’t have any explanation for.
He found himself not liking it.

They went a fairish way on an easy
down-slope, and then the light got brighter.
The hunter whispered, “Careful!” and
slowed down. They drifted like four
ghosts through an archway into a glow
of clear bluish light.

T hey stood on a narrow ledge. Just
here it was hand-smoothed, but on both
sides it ran in nature-eroded roughness into
a jumble of stalactites and wind-galleries.
Above the ledge, in near darkness, was the
high roof arch, and straight ahead, there
was just space. Eventually, a long way
off, Ciaran made out a wall of rock.

Below there was a pit. It was roughly
barrel-shaped. It was deep. It was so
deep that Ciaran had to crane over the
edge to see bottom. Brilliant blue-white
flares made it brighter than daylight about
two-thirds of the way up the barrel.

There were human beings laboring in
the glare. They were tiny things no big-
ger than ants from this height. They wore
no chains, and Ciaran couldn’t see any
guards. But after the first look he quit
worrying about any of that. The Thing

TBE JIEWEL OF BAS 15

growing up in the pit took all his atten-
tion.

It was built of metal. It rose and spread
in intricate swooping curves of shining
whiteness, filling the whole lower part of
the cavern. Ciaran stared at it with a
curious numb feeling of awe.

The thing wasn’t finished. He had not
the faintest idea what it was for. But he
was suddenly terrified of it.

It was more than just the sheer crush-
ing size of it, or the unfamiliar metallic
construction that was like nothing he had
seen or even dreamed of before. It was
the thing itself.

It was Power. It was Strength. It
was a Titan growing there in the belly
of the world, getting ready to reach out
and grip it and play with it, like Mouse
gambling with an empty skull.

Pie knew, looking at it, that no human
brain in his own scale and time of existence
had conceived that shining monster, nor
shaped of itself one smallest part of it.

The red hunter said simply, “I’m
scared. And this smells like a trap.”

Ciaran swallowed something that might
have been his heart. “We’re in it, pal,
like it or don’t. And we’d better get out
of sight before that chaia-gang runs into
us.”

Off to the side, -along the rough part
of the ledge where there were shadows
and holes and pillars of rock, seemed the
best bet. There was a way down to the
cavern floor — a dizzy zig-zag of ledges,
ladders, and steps. But once on it you
were stuck, and no cover.

They edged off, going as fast as they
dared. Mouse was breathing rather heav-
ily and her face was white enough to
make the brand show like a blood-drop
between her brows.

The hermit seemed to be moving in a
private world of his own. The sight of
the shining giant had brought a queer
blaze to his eyes, something Ciaran couldn’t
read and didn’t like. Otherwise, he might
as well have been dead. He hadn’t spoken
since he cursed them, back in the gully.

They crouched down out of sight among
a forest of stalactites. Ciaran watched
the ledge. He whispered, “They hunt by
scent ?”

The hunter nodded. “I think the other
humans will cover us. Too many scents

in this place. But how did they have those
two waiting for us at the cave mouth?”

Ciaran shrugged. “Telepathy. Thought
transference. Lots of the backwater peo-
ple have it. Why not the Kalds?”

“You don’t,” said the hunter, “think
of them as having human minds.”

“Don’t kid yourself. They think, all
right. They’re not human, but they’re
not true animals either.”

“Did they think f/wf.?” The hunter
pointed at the pit.

“No,” said Ciaran slowly. “They
didn’t.”

“Then who — ” He broke off. “Quiet!
Here they come.”

Ciaran held his breath, peering one-
eyed around a stalactite. The slave-gang,
with the grey guards, began to file out of
the tunnel and down the steep descent to
the bottom. There was no trouble. There
was no trouble left in any of those people.
There were several empty collars. There
were also fewer Kalds. Some had stayed
outside to track down the four murderous
fugitives, which meant no escape at that
end.

Ciaran got an idea. When the last of
the line and the guards were safely over
the edge he whispered, “Come on. We’ll
go down right on their tails.”

Mouse gave him a startled look. He
said impatiently, “They won’t be looking
back and up — I hope. And there won’t
be anybody else coming up while they’re
going down. You’ve got a better* idea
about getting down off this bloody perch,
spill it!”

She didn’t have, and the hunter nodded.
“Is good. Let’s go.”

T hey went, like the very devil.

Since all were professionals in their
own line they didn’t make any more fuss
than so many leaves falling. The hermit
followed silently. His pale eyes went to
the shining monster in the pit at every
opportunity.

He was fermenting some idea in his
shaggy head. Ciaran had a hunch the
safest thing would be to quietly trip him
off into space. He resisted it, simply
because knifing a nan in a brawl was one
thing and murdering an unsuspecting
elderly man in cold blood was another.

16 PLANET

Later, he swore a solemn oath to drop
humanitarianism, but hard.

Nobody saw them. The Kalds and the
people below were all too busy not break-
ing their necks to have eyes for anything
else. Nobody came down behind them —
a risk they had had to run. They were
careful to keep a whole section of the
descent between them and the slave gang.

It was a hell of a long way down. The
metal monster grew and grew and slid up
beside them, and then above them, tower-
ing against the vault. It was beautiful.
Ciaran loved its beauty even while he hated
and feared its strength.

Then he realized there were people
working on it, clinging like flies to its
white beams and arches. Some worked with
wands not very different from the one he
carried, fusing metal joints in a sparkle of
hot light. Others guided the huge metal
pieces into place, bringing them up from the
floor of the cavern on long ropes and fit-
ting them delicately.

With a peculiar dizzy sensation, Ciaran
realized there was no more weight to the
metal than if it were feathers.

He prayed they could get past those
workers without being seen, or at least
without having an alarm spread. The four
of them crawled down past two or three
groups of them safely, and then one man,
working fairly close to the cliff, raised his
head and stared straight at them.

Ciaran began to make frantic signs. The
man paid no attention to them. Ciaran got
a good look at his eyes. He let his hands
drop.

“He doesn’t see us,” whispered Mouse
slowly. “Is he blind ?”

The man turned back to his work. It
was an intricate fitting of small parts into
a pierced frame. Work that in all his wan-
derings Ciaran had never seen done any-
where, in any fashion.

He shivered. “No. He just— doesn’t
see us.”

The big hunter licked his lips nervously,
like a beast in a deadfall. His eyes glittered.
The hermit laughed without any sound.
They went on.

It was the same all the way down. Men
and women looked at them, but didn’t see.

In one place they paused to let the slave-
gang get farther ahead. There was a
woman working not far out. She looked

STORIES

like a starved cat, gaunt ribs showing
through torn rags. Her face was twisted
with the sheer effort of breathing, but
there was no expression in her eyes.

Quite suddenly, in the middle of an un-
finished gesture, she collapsed like wet
leather and fell. Ciaran knew she was
dead before her feet cleared the beam she
was sitting on.

That happened twice more on the way
down. Nobody paid any attention.

Mouse wiped moisture off her forehead
and glared at Ciaran. “A fine place to
spend a honeymoon. You and your lousy
shortcuts !”

For once Ciaran had no impulse to cuff
her.

T he last portion of the descent was
covered by the backs of metal lean-tos
full of heat and clamor. The four slipped
away into dense shadow between two of
them, crouched behind a mound of scrap.
They had a good view of what happened
to the slave gang.

The Kalds guided it out between mas-
sive pillars of white metal that held up the
giant web overhead. Fires flared around
the cliff foot. A hot blue-white glare beat
down, partly from some unfamiliar light-
sources fastened in the girders, partly
from the mouths of furnaces hot beyond
any heat Ciaran had ever dreamed of.

Men and women toiled sweating in the
smoke and glare, and never looked at the
newcomers in their chains. There were
no guards.

The Kalds stopped the line in a clear
space beyond the shacks and waited. They
were all facing the same way, expectant,
showing their bright grey teeth and rolling
their blood-pink eyes.

Ciaran’s gaze followed theirs. He got
rigid suddenly, and the sweat on him
turned cold as dew on a toad’s back.

He thought at first it was a man, walking
down between the pillars. It was man-
shaped, tall and slender and strong, and
sheathed from crown to heels in white
mesh metal that shimmered like bright
water.

But when it came closer he knew he
was wrong. Some animal instinct in him
knew even before his mind did. He wanted
to snarl and put up his hackles, and tuck
his tail and run.

THE JEWEL OF BAS 17

T he creature was sexless. The flesh
of its hands and face had a strange
unreal texture, and a dusky yellow tinge
that never came in living flesh.

Its face was human enough in shape —
thin, with light angular bones. Only it
was regular and perfect like something
done carefully in marble, with no human
softness or irregularity. The lips were
bloodless. There was no hair, not even any
eyelashes.

The eyes in that face were what set
Ciaran’s guts to knotting like a nest of
cold snakes. They were not even remotely
human. They were like pools of oil under
the lashless lids — black, deep, impentra-
ble, without heart or soul or warmth.

But wise. Wise with a knowledge beyond
humanity, and strong with a cold, terrible
strength. And old. There were none of
the usual signs of age. It was more than
that. It was a psychic, unhuman feel of
antiquity; a time that ran back and back
and still back to an origin as unnatural as
the body it spawned.

Ciaran knew what it was. He had made
songs about the creature and sung them in
crowded market-places and smoky wine-
shops. He’d scared children with it, and
made grown people shiver while they
laughed.

He wasn’t singing now. He wasn’t laugh-
ing. He was looking at one of the androids
of Bas the Imomrtal — a creature born of
the mysterious power of the Stone, with
no faintest link to humanity in its body or
its brain.

Ciaran knew then whose mind had cre-
ated the shining monster towering above
them. And he knew more than ever that
it was evil.

The android walked out onto a platform
facing the slave-gang, so that it was above
them, where they could all see. In its
right hand it carried a staff of white metal
with a round ball on top. The staff and
the mesh-metal sheath it wore blazed
bright silver in the glare.

The chained humans raised their heads.
Ciaran saw the white scared glint of their
eyeballs, heard the hard suck of breath
and the uneasy clashing of link metal.

The Kalds made warning gestures with
their wands, but they were watching the
android.

2 — Planet — Spring

It raised the staff suddenly, high over
its head. The gesture put the ball top out
of Ciaran’s sight behind a girder. And
then the lights dimmed and went out.

For a moment there was total darkness,
except for the dull marginal glow of the
forges and furnaces. Then, from behind
the girder that hid the top of the staff a
glorious opaline light burst out, filling the
space between the giant pillars, reaching
out and up into the dim air with banners
of shimmering flame.

The Kalds crouched down in attitudes
of worship, their blood-pink eyes like sen-
tient coals. A trembling ran through the
line of slaves, as though a wind had passed
across them and shaken them like wheat.
A few cried out, but the sounds were
muffled quickly to silence. They stood still,
staring up at the light.

The android neither moved nor spoke,
standing like a silver lance.

Ciaran got up. He didn’t know that he
did it. He was distantly aware of Mouse
beside him, breathing hard through an open
mouth and catching opaline sparks in her
black eyes. There was other movement,
but he paid no attention.

He wanted to get closer to the light. He
wanted to see what made it. He wanted to
bathe in it. He could feel it pulsing in him,
sparkling in his blood. He also wanted to
run away, but the desire was stronger than
the fear. It even made the fear rather
pleasurable.

He was starting to climb over the pile
of scrap when the android spoke. Its voice
was light, clear, and carrying. There was
nothing menacing about it. But it stopped
Ciaran like a blow in the face, penetrating
even through his semi-drugged yearning for
the light.

He knew sound. He knew mood. He
was sensitive to them as his own harp in
the way he made his living. He felt what
was in that voice; or rather, what wasn’t
in it. And he stopped, dead still.

It was a voice speaking out of a place
where no emotion, as humanity knew the
word, had ever existed. It came from a
brain as alien and incomprehensible as
darkness in a world of eternal light; a
brain no human could ever touch or un-
derstand, except to feel the cold weight of
its strength and cower as a beast cowers
before the terrible mystery of fire.

18 PLANET

“Sleep,” said the android. “Sleep, and
listen to my voice. Open your minds, and
listen.”

IV

T hrough a swimming rainbow haze
Ciaran saw the relaxed, dull faces of
the slaves.

“You are nothing. You are no one. You
exist only to serve; to work; to obey. Do
you hear and understand?”

The line of humans swayed and made a
small moaning sigh. It held nothing but
amazement and desire. They repeated the
litany through thick animal mouths.

“Your minds are open to mine. You
will hear my thoughts. Once told, you will
not forget. You will feel hunger and thirst,
but not weariness. You will have no need
to stop and rest, or sleep.”

Again the litany. Ciaran passed a hand
over his face. He was sweating. In spite
of himself the light and the soulless, mes-
meric voice w’ere getting him. He hit his
own jaw with his knuckles, thanking what-
ever gods there were that the source of the
light had been hidden from him. He knew
he could never have bucked it.

More, perhaps, of the power of the
Stone of Destiny?

A sudden sharp rattle of fragments
brought his attention to the scrap heap.
The hermit was already half way over it.
And Mouse was right at his heels.

Ciaran went after her. The rubble
slipped and slid, and she was already out
of reach. He called her name in despera-
tion. She didn’t hear him. She was hungry
for the light.

Ciaran flung himself bodily over the
rubbish. Out on the floor, the nearest
Kalds were shaking off their daze of wor-
ship. The hermit was scrambling on all
fours, like a huge grey cat.

Mouse’s crimson tunic stayed just out
of reach. Ciaran threw a handful of metal
fragments at her back. She turned her
head and snarled at him. She didn’t see
him. Almost as an automatic reflex she
hurled some stuff at his face, but she didn’t
even slow down. The hermit cried out, a
high, eerie scream.

A huge hand closed on Ciaran’s ankle
and hauled him back. He fought it, jab-
bing with the wand he still carried. A sec-

STORIES

ond remorseless hand prisoned his wrist

The red hunter said dispassionately,
“They come. We ga”

“Mouse ! Let me go, damn you ! Mouse!’*

“You can’t help her. We go, quick.”

Ciaran went on kicking and thrashing.

The hunter banged him over the ear with
exquisite judgment, took the wand out of
his limp hand and tossed him over one
vast shoulder. The light hadn’t affected
the hunter much. He’d been in deeper
shadow than the others, and his half-animal
nerves had warned him quicker even than
Ciaran’s. Being a wise wild thing, he had
shut his eyes at once. ,

He doubled behind the metal sheds and
began to run in dense shadow.

Ciaran heard and felt things from a
great misty distance. He heard the hermit
yell again, a crazy votive cry of worship.
He felt the painful jarring of his body
and smelled the animal rankness of the
hunter.

He heard Mouse scream, just once.

He tried to move; to get up and do
something. The hunter slammed him hard
across the kidneys. Ciaran was aware
briefly that the lights were coming on
again. After that it got very dark and
very quiet.

The hunter breathed in his ear, “Quiet!
Don’t move.”

There wasn’t much chance of Ciaran do-
ing anything. The hunter lay on top of
him with one freckled paw covering most
of his face. Ciaran gasped and rolled his
eyes.

They lay in a troughed niche of rough
stone. There was black shadow on them
from an overhang, but the blue glare burned
beyond it. Even as he watched it dimmed
and flickered and then steadied again.

High up over his head the shining metal
monster reached for the roof of the cavern.
It had grown. It had grown enormously,
and a mechanism was taking shape inside it ;
a maze of delicate rods and crystal prisms,
of wheels and balances and things Ciaran
hadn’t any name for.

Then he remembered about Mouse, and
nothing else mattered.

The hunter lay on him, crushing him to
silence. Ciaran’s blue eyes blazed. He’d
have killed the hunter then, if there had
been any way to do it. There wasn’t. Pres-
ently he stopped fighting.

THE JEWEL OF BAS 19

Again the red giant breathed in his ear;
“Look over the edge.”

He took his hand away. Very, very
quietly, Ciaran raised his head a few inches
and looked over.

Their niche was some fifteen feet above
the floor of the pit. Below and to the right
was the mouth of a square tunnel. The
crowded, sweating confusion of the forges
and workshops spread out before them, with
people swarming like ants after a rain.

Standing at the tunnel mouth were two
creatures in shining metal sheathes — the an-
droids of Bas thd Immortal.

T heir dear, light voices rose up to
where Ciaran' and the hunter lay.

“Did you find out?”

“Failing — ^as we judged. Otherwise, no
change.”

“No change.” One of the slim unhumans’
turned and looked with its depthless black
eyes at the soaring metal giant. “If we can
only finish it in time !”

The other said, “We can, Khafre. We
must.”

Khafre made a quick, impatient gesture.
“We need more slaves ! These human cat-
tle are frail. You drive them, and they die.”
“The Kalds . . .”

“Are doing what they can. Two more
chains have just come. But it’s still not
enough to be safe! I’ve told the beasts to"
raid farther in, even to the border cities if
they have to.”

“It won’t help if the humans attack us
before we’re done.”

Khafre laughed. There was nothing
pleasant or remotely humorous about it.

"If they could track the Kalds this far,
we could handle them easily. After we’re
finished, of course, they’ll be subjugated
anyway.”

The other nodded. Faintly uneasy, it
said, “If we finish in time. If we
don’t . . .”

“If we don’t,” said Khafre, “none of it
matters, to them or us or the Immortal
Bas.” Something that might have been a
shudder passed over its shining body. Then
it threw back its head and laughed again,
high and clear.

“But we will finish it, Steud! We’re
unique in the universe, and nothing can
stop us. This means the end of boredom,
of servitude and imprisonment. With this

world in our hands, nothing can stop us!”

Steud whispered, “Nothing!” Then they
moved away, disappearing into the seeth-
ing clamor of the floor.

The red hunter said, “What were they
talking about ?”

Ciaran shook his head. His eyes were
hard and curiously remote, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t like the smell of it, little man.
It’s bad.”

“Yeah.” Ciaran’s voice was very steady.
“What happened to Mouse?”

“She was- taken with the others. Be-
lieve me, little man — I had to do what I
did or they’d have taken you, too. There
was nothing you could do to help her.”

“She — f (flowed the light.”

“I think so. But I had to run fast.”

There was a mist over Ciaran’s sight.
His heart was slugging him. Not because
he particularly cared,, he asked, “How did
we get away? I thought I saw the big
lights come on . . .”

“They did. And then they went off
again, all of a sudden. They weren’t ex-
pecting it. I had a head start. The grey
beasts hunt by scent, but in that stewpot
there are too many scents. They lost us,
and when the lights came on again I saw
this niche and managed to climb to it with-
out being seen.”

He looked out over the floor, scratching
his red beard. “I think they’re too busy
to bother about two people. No, three.”
He chuckled. “The hermit got away, too.
He ran past me in the dark, screaming like
an ape about revelations and The Light.
Maybe they’ve got him again by now.”

C IARAN wasn’t worrying about the
hermit. “Subjugation,” he said
slowly. “With this word in their hands,
nothing can stop them.” He looked out
across the floor of the pit. No guards. You
didn’t need any guards when you had a
weapon like that light. Frail human cattle
driven till they died, and not knowing about
it nor caring.

The world in their hands. An empty shell
for them to play with, to use as they wanted.
No more market places, no more taverns,
no more songs. No more little people liv-
ing their little lives the way they wanted to.
Just slaves with blank faces, herded by grey
beasts with shining wands and held by
the android’s light.

20 PLANET

He didn’t know why the androids
wanted the world or what they were going
to do with it. He only knew that the
whole thing made him sick — sick all
through, in a way he’d never felt before.

The fact that what he was going to do
was hopeless and crazy never occurred to
him. Nothing occurred to him, except that
somewhere in that seething slave-pen
Mouse was laboring, with eyes that didn’t
see and a brain that was only an open chan-
nel for orders. Pretty soon, like the woman
up on the girder, she was going to hit her
limit and die.

Ciaran said abruptly, “If you want to kill
a snake, what do you do?”

“Cut off its head, of course.”

Ciaran got his feet under him. “The
Stone of Destiny,” he whispered. “The
power of life and death. Do you believe in
legends ?”

The hunter shrugged. “I believe in my
hands. They’re all I know.”

“I’m going to need your hands, to help
me break one legend and build another !”

“They’re yours, little man. Where do
we go?”

“Down that tunnel. Because, if I’m not
clear off, that leads to Ben Beatha, and
Bas the Immortal — and the Stone.”

Almost as though it were a signal, the
blue glare dimmed and flickered. In the
serai-darkness Ciaran and the hunter
dropped down from the niche and went
into the tunnel.

It was dark, with only a tiny spot of blue
radiance at wide intervals along the walls.
They had gone quite a distance before these
strengthened to their normal brightness,
and even then it was fairly dark. It seemed
to be deserted.

The hunter kept stopping to listen. When
Ciaran asked irritably what was wrong, he
said:

“I think there’s someone behind us. I’m
not sure.”

“Well, give him a jab with the wand if
he gets too close. Hurry up !”

The tunnel led straight toward Ben
Beatha, judging from its position in the
pit. Ciaran was almost running when the
hunter caught his shoulder urgently.

“Wait ! There’s movement up ahead . .

He motioned Ciaran down. On their
hands and knees they crawled forward,
holding their wands ready.

STORiES

A slight bend in the tunnel revealed a
fork. One arm ran straight ahead. The
other bent sharply upward, toward the
surface.

There were four Kalds crouched on the
rock between them, playing some obscure
game with human finger bones.

Ciaran got his weight over his toes and
moved fast. The hunter went beside him.
Neither of them made a sound. The Kalds
were intent on their game and not expecting
trouble.

The two men might have got away with
it, only that suddenly from behind them,
someone screamed like an angry cat.

C IARAN’S head jerked around, just
long enough to let him see the hermit
standing in the tunnel, with his stringy
arms lifetd and his grey hair flying, and a
light of pure insanity blazing in his pale
eyes.

“Evil!” he shrieked. “You are evil to
defy The Light, and the servants of The
Light!”

He seemed to have forgotten all about
calling the Kalds demons a little while
before.

The gi-ey beasts leaped up, moving
quickly in with their wands ready. Ciaran
yelled with sheer fury. He went for them,
the rags of his yellow tunic streaming.

He wasn’t quite clear about what hap-
pened after that. There was a lot of mo-
tion, grey bodies leaping and twisting and
jewel-tips flashing. Something flicked him
stunningly across the temple. He fought
in a sort of detached fog where everything
was blurred and distant. The hermit went
on screaming about Evil and The Light.
The hunter bellowed a couple of times,
things thudded and crashed, and once
Ciaran poked his wand straight into a
blood-pink eye.

Sometime right after that there was a
confused rush of running feet back in the
tunnel. The hunter was down. And Ciaran
found himself running up the incline, be-
cause the other way was suddenly choked
with Kalds.

He got away. He was never sure how.
Probably instinct warned him to go in time
so that, in the confusion he was out of
sight before the reinforcements saw him.
Three of the original four Kalds were
down and the fourth was busy with the

THE JEWEL OF BAS

hermit. Anyway, for the moment, he
made it

When he staggered finally from the
mouth of the ramp, drenched with sweat
and gasping, he was back on the Forbid-
den Plain, and Ben Beatha towered above
him — a great golden Titan reaching for
the red sky.

The tumbled yellow rock of its steep
slopes was barren of any growing thing.
There were no signs of buildings, or any-
thing built by hands, human or otherwise.
High up, almost in the apex of the tri-
angular peak, was a square, balconied open-
ing that might have been only a wind-
eroded niche in the cliff-face.

Ciaran stood on widespread legs, study-
ing the mountain with sullen stubborn eyes.
He believed in legend, now. It was all he
believed in. Somewhere under the golden
peak was the Stone of Destiny and the
demigod who was its master.

Behind him were the creatures of that
demigod, and the monster they were build-
ing — and a little black-haired Mouse who
was going to die unless something was
done about it.

A lot of other people, too. A whole
sane comfortable world. But Mouse was
about all he could handle, just then.

He wasn’t Ciaran the bard any longer.
He wasn’t a human, attached to a normal
human world. He moved in a strange land
of gods and demons, where everything was
as mad as a drunkard’s nightmare, and
Mouse was the only thing that held him at
all to the memory of a life wherein men
and women fought and laughed and loved.

His scarred mouth twitched and tight-
ened. He started off across the rolling, bar-
ren rise to Ben Beatha — a tough, bandy-
legged little man in yellow rags, with a
brown, expressionless face and a forgotten
harp slung between his shoulders, moving
at a steady gypsy lope.

A wind sighed over the Forbidden Plain,
rolling the sunballs in the red sky. And
then, from the crest of Ben Beatha, the
darkness came.

This time Ciaran didn’t stop to be
afraid. There was nothing left inside
him to be afraid with. He remembered the
hermit’s words : Judgment. Great things
moving. Doom and destruction, a shadow
across the world, a darkness and a dying.
Something of the same feeling came to him,

21

but he wasn’t human any longer. He was
beyond fear. Fate moved, and he was
part of it.

Stones and shale tricked his feet in the
darkness. All across the Forbidden Plains
there was night and a wailing wind and a
sharp chill of cold. Far, far away there
was a faint red glow on the sky where the
sea burned with its own fire.

Ciaran went on.

Overhead, then, the sunballs began to
flicker. Little striving ripples of light went
out across them, lighting the barrens with
an eerie witch-glow. The flickering was
worse than the darkness. It was like the
last struggling pulse fo a dying man’s heart.
Ciaran was aware of a coldness in him
beyond the chill of the wind.

A shadow across the world, a darkness
and a dying . . .

He began to climb Ben Beatha.

V

T he stone was rough and fairly broken,
and Ciaran had climbed mountains be-
fore. He crawled upward, through the sick
light and the cold wind that screamed and
fought him harder the higher he got. He
retained no very clear memory of the climb.
Only after a long, long time he fell inward
over the wall of a balcony and lay still.

He was bleeding from rock-tears and
his heart kicked him like the heel of a
vicious horse. But he didn’t care. The bal-
cony was man-made, the passage back of
it led somewhere — and the light had come
back in the sky.

It wasn’t quite the same, though. It was
weaker, and less warm.

When he could stand up he went in along
the passage, square-hewn in the living rock
of Ben Beatha, the Mountain of Life.

It led straight in, lighted by a soft opaline
glow from hidden light-sources. Presently
it turned at right angles and became a
spiral ramp, leading down.

Corridors led back from it at various
levels, but Ciaran didn’t bother about them.
They were dark, and the dust of ages lay
unmarked on their floors.

Down and down, a long, long way. Si-
lence. The deep uncaring silence of death
and the eternal rock — dark titans who
watched the small furious ant-scurryings

22 PLANET

of man and never, never, for one moment,
gave a damn.

And then the ramp flattened into a broad
high passage cut deep in the belly of the
mountain. And the passage led to a door
of gold, twelve feet high and intricately
graved and pierced, set with symbols that
Ciaran had heard of only in legend; the
Hun-LaJiun-Mehen, the Snake, the Circle,
and the Cross, blazing in hot jewel-fires.

But above them, crushing and dominant
on both valves of the great door, was the
crux ansata, the symbol of eternal life, cut
from some lustreless stone so black it was
like a pattern of blindness on the eyeball.

Ciaran shivered and drew a deep, un-
steady breath. One brief moment of human
terror came to him. Then he set his two
hands on the door and pushed it open.

He came into a small room hung with
tapestries and lighted dimly by the same
opaline glow as the hallway. The half-seen
pictures showed men and beasts and bat-
tles against a background at once tantaliz-
ingly familiar and frighteningly alien.

There was a rug on the floor. It was
made from the head and hide of a creature
Ciaran had never even dreamed of before —
a thing like a huge tawny cat with a dark
mane and great, shining fangs.

Ciaran padded softly across it and pushed
aside the heavy curtains at the other end.

A t first there was only darkness.

It seemed to fill a large space ; Ciaran
had an instinctive feeling of size. He went
out into it, very cautiously, and then his
eyes found a pale glow ahead in the black-
ness, as though someone had crushed a
pearl with his thumb and smeared it across
the dark.

He was a thief and a gypsy. He made
no more sound than a wisp of cloud,
drifting toward it. His feet touched a
broad, shallow step, and then another. He
climbed, and the pearly glow grew stronger
and became a curving wall of radiance.

He stopped just short of touching it, on
a level platform high above the floor. He
squinted against its curdled, milky thick-
ness, trying to see through.

Wrapped in the light, cradled and pro-
tected by it like a bird in the heart of a
shining cloud, a boy slept on a couch made
soft with furs and colored silks. He was
quite naked, his limbs flung out carelessly

STORIES

with the slim angular grace of his youth.
His skin was white as milk, catching a pale
warmth from the light.

He slept deeply. He might almost have
been dead, except for the slight rise and
fall of his breathing. His head was rolled
over so that he faced Ciaran, his cheek
pillowed on his upflung arm.

His hair, thick, curly, and black al-
most to blueness, had grown out long across
his forearm, across the white fur beneath
it, and down onto his wide slim shoulders.
The nails of his lax hand, palm up above
his head, stood up through the hair. They
were inches long.

His face was just a boy’s face. A good
face, even rather handsome, with strong
bone just beginning to show under the
roundness. His cheek was still soft as a
girl’s, the lashes of his closed lids dark and
heavy.

He looked peaceful, even happy. His
mouth was curved in a vague smile, as
though his dreams were pleasant. And yet
there was something there . . .

A shadow. Something unseen and un-
touchable, something as fragile as the note
of a shepherd’s pipe brought from far off
on a vagrant breeze. Something as inde-
scribable as death — and as broodingly pow-
erful. Ciaran sensed it, and his nerves
throbbed suddenly like the strings of his
own harp.

He saw then that the couch the boy slept
on was a huge crux ansata, cut from the
dead-black stone, with the arms stretching
from under his shoulders and the loop like
a monstrous halo above his head.

The legends whispered through Ciaran’s
head. The songs, the tales, the folklore.
The symbolism, and the image-patterns.

Bas the Immortal was always described
as a giant, like the mountain he lived in,
and old, because Immortal suggests age.
Awe, fear, and unbelief spoke through
those legends, and the child-desire to build
tall. But there was an older legend . . .

Ciaran, because he was a gypsy and a
thief and had music in him like a drunkard
has wine, had heard it, deep in the black
forests of Hyperborea where even gypsies
seldom go. The oldest legend of all — ^the
tale of the Shining Youth frcwn Beyond,
who walked in beauty and power, who
never grew old, and who carried in his

THE JEWEL OF BAS 23

heart a bitter darkness that no man could
understand.

The Shining Youth from Beyond. A boy
sleeping with a smile on his face, walled
in living light.

Ciaran stood still, staring. His face was
loose and quite blank. His heartbeats shook
him slightly, and his breath had a rusty
sound in his open mouth.

After a long time he started forward,
into the light.

It struck him, hurled him back numbed
and dazed. Thinking of Mouse, he tried it
twice more before he was convinced. Then
he tried yelling. His voice crashed back
at him from the unseen walls, but the sleep-
ing boy never stirred, never altered even
the rhythm of his breathing.

After that Ciaran crouched in the awful
laxness of impotency, and thought about
Mouse, and cried.

Then, quite suddenly, without any warn-
ing at all, the wall of light vanished.

H e DIDN’T believe it. But he put his
his hand out again, and nothing
stopped it, so he rushed forward in the
pitch blackness until he hit the stone arm
of the cross. And behind him, and all
around him, the light began to glow again.

Only now it was different. It flickered
and dimmed and struggled, like something
fighting not to die. Like something else . . .

Like the sunballs. Like the light in the
sky that meant life to a world. Flickering
and feeble like an old man’s heart, the last
frightened wing-beats of a dying bird . . .

A terror took Ciaran by the throat and
stopped the breath in it, and turned his
body colder than a corpse. He watched . . .

The light glowed and pulsed, and grew
stronger. Presently he was walled in by
it, but it seemed fainter than before.

A terrible feeling of urgency came over
Ciaran, a need for haste. The words of the
androids came back to him : Failing, as we
judged. If we finish in time. If we don’t,
none of it matters.

A shadow across the world, a darkness
and a dying. Mouse slaving with empty
eyes to build a shining monster that would
harness the world to the wills of non-
human brains.

It didn’t make sense, but it meant some-
thing. Something deadly important. And
the key to the whole mad jumble was here

— a dark-haired boy dreaming on a stone
cross.

Ciaran moved closer. He saw then that
the boy had stirred, very slightly, and that
his face was troubled. It was as though the
dimming of the light had disturbed him.
Then he sighed and smiled again, nestling
his head deeper into the bend of his arm,

“Bas,” said Ciaran. “Lord Bas!’’

His voice sounded hoarse and queer. The
boy didn’t hear him. He called again,
louder. Then he put his hand on one slim
white shoulder and shook it hesitantly at
first, and then hard, and harder.

The boy Bas didn’t even flicker his eye-
lids.

Ciaran beat his fists against the empty
air and cursed without any voice. Then,
almost instinctively, he crouched on the
stone platform and took his harp in his
hands.

It wasn’t because he expected to do any-
thing with it. It was simply that harping
was as natural to him as breathing, and
what was inside him had to come out some
way. He wasn’t thinking about music. He
was thinking about Mouse, and it just
added up to the same thing.

Random chords at first, rippling up
against the wall of milky light. Then the
agony in him began to run out through his
finger-tips onto the strings, and he sent it
thrumming strong across the still air. It
sang wild and savage, but underneath it
there was the sound of his own heart
breaking, and the fall of tears.

There was no time. There wasn’t even
any Ciaran. There was only the harp cry-
ing a dirge for a black-haired Mouse and
the world she lived in. Nothing mattered
but that. Nothing would ever matter.

Then finally there wasn’t anything left
for the harp to cry about. The last quiver
of the strings went throbbing off into a
dull emptiness, and there was only an
ugly little man in yellow rags crouched
silent by a stone cross, hiding his face in
his hands.

Then, faint and distant, like the echo of
words spoken in another world, another
time:

Don’t draw the veil. Marsali — don’t . . .!

Ciaran looked up, stiffening. The
boy’s lips movel His face, the eyes
still closed, was twisted in an agony of

24 PLANET

pleading. His hands were raised, reaching,
trying to hold something that slipped
through his fingers like mist.

Dark mist. The mist of dreams. It was
still in his eyes when he opened them. Grey
eyes, clouded and veiled, and then with the
dream-mist thickening into tears . . .

He cried out, “Marsali!” as though his
heart was ripped out of him with the breath
that said it. Then he lay still on the couch,
his eyes, staring unfocused at the milky
light, with the tears running out of them.

Ciaran said softly, “Lord Bas . . .”

“Awake,” whispered the boy. “I’m
awake again. Music — a harp crying out
. . . I didn’t want to wake! Oh, God, T
didn’t want to!”

He sat up suddenly. The rage, the sheer
blind fury in his young face rocked Ciaran
like the blow of a fist.

“Who waked me? Who dared to wake
me ?”

There was no place to run. The light
held him. And there was Mouse. Ciaran
said:

“I did. Lord Bas. There was need to.”

The boy’s grey eyes came slowly to
focus on his face. Ciaran’s heart kicked
once and stopped beating. A great cold
stillness breathed from somewhere beyond
the world and walled him in, closer and
tighter than the milky light. Close and
tight, like the packed earth of a grave.

A boy’s face, round and smooth and
soft. No shadow even of down on the
cheeks, the lips still pink and girlish. Long
dark lashes, and under them . . .

Grey eyes. Old with suffering, old with
pain, old with an age beyond human un-
derstanding. Eyes that had seen birth and
life and death in an endless stream, flowing
by just out of reach, just beyond hearing.
Eyes looking out between the bars of a
private hell that was never built for any
man before.

One strong young hand reached down
among the furs and silks and felt for some-
thing, and Ciaran knew the thing was death.

Ciaran, suddenly, was furious himself.

He struck a harsh, snarling chord on
the harpstrings, thinking of Mouse. He
poured his fury out in bitter, pungent
words, the gypsy argot of the Quarters, and
all the time Bas fumbled to get the hidden
weapon in his hands.

It was the long nails that saved Ciaran’s

STORIES

life. They kept Bas from closing his
fingers, and in the meantime some of
Ciaran’s vibrant rage had penetrated. Bas
whispered :

“You love a woman.”

“Yeah,” said Ciaran. “Yeah.,”

“So do 1. A woman I created, and made
to live in my dreams. Do you know what
you did when you waked me?”

“Maybe I saved the world. If the leg-
ends are right, you built it. You haven’t
any right to let it die so you can sleep.”

“I built another world, little man. Mar-
sali’s world. I don’t want to leave it.” He
bent forward, tow’ard Ciaran. “I was
happy in that world. I built it to suit me.
I belong in it. Do you know why? Be-
cause it’s made from my own dreams, as I
want it. Even the people. Even Marsali.
Even myself.

“They drove me away from one world.
I built another, but it was no different. I’m
not human. I don’t belong with humans,
nor in any world they live in. So I learned
to sleep, and dream.”

He lay back on the couch. He looked
pitifully young, with the long lashes hid-
ing his eyes.

“Go away. Let your little world crumble.
It’s doomed anyway. What difference do
a few life-spans make in eternity? Let
me sleep.”

C IARAN struck the harp again. “No I
Listen . .

He told Bas about the slave-gangs, the
androids, the shining monster in the pit —
and the darkness that swept over the world.
It was the last that caught the boy’s at-
tention.

He sat up slowly. “Darkness? You!
How did you get to me, past the light?”
Ciaran told him.

“The Stone of Destiny,” whispered the
Immortal. Suddenly he laughed. He
laughed to fill the whole dark space beyond
the light; terrible laughter, full of hate
and a queer perverted triumph.

He stopped, as suddenly as he had be-
gun, and spread his hands flat on the col-
ored silks, the long nails gleaming like
knives. His eyes widened, grey windows
into a deep hell, and his voice was no
more than a breath.

“Could that mean that I will die, too?”

THE JEWEL OF BAS

Ciaran’s scarred mouth twitched. “The
Stone of Destiny ...”

The boy leaped up from his couch. His
hand swept over some hidden control in
the arm of the stone cross, and the milky
light died out. At the same time, an opaline
glow suffused the darkness beyond.

Bas the Immortal ran down the steps —
a dark-haired, graceful boy running naked
in the heart of an opal.

Ciaran followed.

They came to the hollow core of Ben
Beatha — a. vast pyramidal space cut in the
yellow rock. Bas stopped, and Ciaran
stopped behind him.

The whole space was laced and twined
and webbed with crystal. Rods of it,
screens of it, meshes of it. A shining helix
ran straight up overhead, into a shaft that
seemed to go clear through to open air.

In the crystal, pulsing along it like the
life-blood in a man’s veins, there was light.

It was like no light Ciaran had ever
seen before. It was no color, and every
color. It seared the eye with heat, and yet
it was cold and pure like still water. It
throbbed and beat. It was alive.

Ciaran followed the crystal maze down
and down, to the base of it. There, in the
very heart of it, lying at the hub of a shin-
ing web, lay something.

Like a black hand slammed across the
eyeballs, darkness fell.

For a moment he was blind, and through
the blindness came a soft whisper of
movement. Then there was light again;
a vague smeared spot of it on the pitch
black.

It glowed and faded and glowed again.
The rusty gleam slid across the half-
crouched body of Bas the Immortal,
pressed close against the crystal web. It
caught in his eyes, turning them hot and
lambent like beast-eyes in the dark of a
cave-mouth.

Little sparks of hell-fire in a boy’s face,
staring at the Stone of Destiny.

A stone no bigger than a man’s heart,
with power in it. Even dying, it had power.
Power to build a world, or smash it. Power
never born of Ciaran’s planet, or any
planet, but something naked and perfect
— an egg from the womb of space itself.

It fought to live, lying in its crystal
web. It was like watching somebody’s
heart stripped clean and struggling to beat.

25

The fire in it flickered and flared, sending
pale witch-lights dancing up along the
crystal maze.

Outside, Ciaran knew, all across the
world, the sunballs were pulsing and flick-
ering to the dying beat of the Stone.

Bas whispered, “It’s over. Over and
done.”

W ITHOUT knowing it, Ciaran touched
the harpstrings and made them
shudder. “The legends were right, then.
The Stone of Destiny kept the world alive.”

“Alive. It gave light and warmth, and
before that it powered the ship that
brought me here across space, from the
third planet of our sun to the tenth. It
sealed the gaps in the planet’s crust and
drove the machinery that filled the hollow
core inside with air. It was my strength.
It built my world; my world, where I
w'ould be loved and respected — all right,
and worshipped !”

He laughed, a small bitter sob.

“A child I was. After all those cen-
turies, still a child playing with a toy.”

His voice rang out louder across the
flickering dimness. A boy’s voice, clear and
sweet. He wasn’t talking to Ciaran. He
wasn’t even talking to himself. He was
talking to Fate, and cursing it.

“I took a walk one morning. That was
all I did. I was just a fisherman’s son
walking on the green hills of Atlantis above
the sea. That was all I wanted to be —
a fisherman’s son, someday to be a fisher-
man myself, with sons of my own. And
then from nowhere, out of the sky, the
meteorite fell. There was thunder, and a
great light, and then darkness. And when
I woke again I was a god.

“I took the Stone of Destiny out of its
broken shell. The light from it burned in
me, and I was a god. And I was happy.
I didn’t know.

“I was too young to be a god. A boy
who never grew older. A boy who wanted
to play with other boys, and couldn’t. A
boy who wanted to age, to grow a beard
and a man’s voice, and find a woman to
live. It was hell, after the thrill wore off.
It was worse, when my mind and heart
grew up, and my body didn’t.

“And they said I was no god, but a
blasphemy, a freak.

“The priests of Dagon, of all the tem-

26 PLAiVET

pies of Atlantis, spoke against me. I had to
run away. I roamed the whole earth before
the Flood, carrying the Stone. Sometimes
I ruled for centuries, a god-king, but always
the people tired of me and rose against me.
fThey hated me, because I lived forever
and never grew old.

“A man they might have accepted. But
a boy! A brain with all the wisdom it
could borrow from time, grown so far
from theirs that it was hard to talk to
them — and a body too young even for the
games of manhood!

Ciaran stood frozen, shrinking from the
hell in the boy-God’s agonized voice.

“So I grew to hate them, and when they
drove me out I turned on them, and used
the power of the Stone to destroy. I know
what happened to the cities of the Gobi,
to Angkor, and the temples of Mayapan!
So the people hated me more because they
feared me more, and I was alone. No one
has ever been alone as I was.

“So I built my own world, here in the
heart of a dead planet. And in the end it
was the same, because the people were
human and I was not. I created the an-
droids, freaks like myself, to stand between
me and my people — my own creatures, that
I could trust. And I built a third world,
in my dreams.

“And now the Stone of Destiny has
come to the end of its strength. Its atoms
are eaten away by its own fire. The world
it powered will die. And what will hap-
pen to me ? I wnll I go on living, even after
my body is frozen in the cold dark?’’

Silence, then. The pulsing beat of light
in the crystal rods. The heart of a world
on its deathbed.

Ciaran’s harp crashed out. It made the
crystal sing. His voice came with it:

“Bas! The monster in the pit, that the
androids are building — I know now what
it is ! They knew the Stone was dying.
They’re going to have power of their own,
and take the world. You can’t let them,
Bas! You brought us here. We’re your
people. You can’t let the androids have
us!’’

The boy laughed, a low, bitter sound.
“What do I care for your world or your
people? I only want to sleep.” He caught
his breath in and turned around, as though
he was going back to the place of the stone
cross.

STORIES

VI

C IARAN stroked the harpstrings.

“Wait . . It was all humanity cry-
ing out of the harp. Little people, lost
and frightened and pleading for help. No
voice could have said what it said. It was
Ciaran himself, a channel for the unthink-
ing pain inside him.

“Wait — You were human once. You
were young. You laughed and quarrelled
and ate and slept, and you were free. That’s
all we ask. Just those things. Remember
Bas the fisherman’s son, and help us!”

Grey eyes looking at him. Grey eyes
looking from a boy’s face. “How could I
help you even if I wanted to?”

“There’s some power left in the Stone.
And the androids are your creatures. You
made them. You can destroy them. If you
could do it before they finish this thing —
from the way they spoke, they mean to
destroy you with it.”

Bas laughed.

Ciaran’s hand struck a terrible chord
from the harp, and fell away.

Bas said heavily, “They’ll draw power
from the gravitic force of the planet and
broadcast it the same way. It will never
stop as long as the planet spins. If they
finish it in time, the world will live. If
they don’t . . .” He shrugged. “What dif-
ference does it make?”

“So,” whispered Ciaran, “we have a
choice of a quick death, or a lingering one.
We can die free, on our own feet, or we
can die slaves.” His voice rose to a full-
throated shout. “God! You’re no god!
You’re a selfish brat sulking in a corner.
All right, go back to your Marsali! And
I’ll play god for a minute.”

He raised the harp.

“I’ll play god, and give ’em the dean
way out!”

He drew his arm back to throw — ^to
smash the crystal web. And then, with
blinding suddenness, there was light again.

They stood frozen, the two of them,
blinking in the hot opalescence. Then
their eyes were drawn to the crystal web.

The Stone of Destiny still fluttered like
a d)dng heart, and the crystal rods were
dim.

Ciaran whispered, “It’s too late. The/re
finished.”

Silence again. They stood almost ^

THE JEWEL OF BAS 27

though they were waiting for something,
hardly breathing, with Ciaran still holding
the silent harp in his hand.

Very, very faintly, under his fingers,
the strings began to thrum.

Vibration. In a minute Ciaran could
hear it in the crystal. It was like the buzz
and strum of insects just out of earshot.
He said:

“What’s that?”

The boy’s ears were duller than his.
But presently he smiled and said, “So that’s
how they’re going to do it. Vibration,
that will shake Ben Beatha into a cloud of
dust, and me with it. They must believe
I’m still asleep.” He shrugged. “What
matter ? It’s death.”

Ciaran slung the harp across his back.
There was a curious finality in the action.

“There’s a way from here into tlie pit.
Where is it?”

Bas pointed across the open space.
Ciaran started walking. He didn’t say
anything.

Bas said, “Where are you going?”

“Back to Mouse,” said Ciaran simply.

“To die with her.” The crystal maze
hummed eerily. “I wish I could see Mar-
sali again.”

C IARAN stopped. He spoke over his
shoulder, without expression. “The
death of the Stone doesn’t mean your
death, does it?”

“No. The first exposure to its light when
it landed, blazing with the heat of friction,
made permanent changes in the cell struc-
ture of my body. Tm independent of it —
as the androids are of the culture vats
they grew in.”

“And the new power source will take up
where the Stone left off?”

“Yes. Even the wall of rays that pro-
tected me and fed my body while I slept
will go on. The power of the Stone was
broadcast to it, and to the sunballs. There
were no mechanical leads.”

Ciaran said softly, “And you love this
Marsali? You’re happy in this dream
world you created? You could go back
there?”

“Yes,” whispered Bas. “Yes. Yes!’
Ciaran turned. “Then help us destroy
the androids. Give us our world, and we’ll

give you yours. If we fail — ^well, we have
nothing to lose.”

Silence. The crystal web hummed and
sang — death whispering across the world.
The Stone of Destiny throbbed like the
breast of a dying bird. The boy’s grey
eyes were veiled and remote. It seemed
almost that he was asleep.

Then he smiled — the drowsy smile of
pleasure he had worn when Ciaran found
him, dreaming on the stone cross.

“Marsali,” he whispered. “Marsali.”

He moved forward then, reaching out
across the crystal web. The long nails on
his fingers scooped up the Stone of Des-
tiny, cradled it, caged it in.

Bas the Immortal said, “Let’s go, little
man.”

Ciaran didn’t say anything. He looked
at Bas. His eyes were wet. Then he got
the harp in his hands again and struck it,
and the thundering chords shook the crys-
tal maze to answering music.

It drowned the faint death-whisper. And
then, caught between two vibrations, the
shining rods split and fell, with a shiver
of sound like the ringing of distant bells.

Ciaran turned and went down the pass-
age to the pit. Behind him came iJie dark-
haired boy with the Stone of Destiny in
his hands.

They came along the lower arm of the
fork where Ciaran and the hunter had
fought the Kalds. There were four of the
grey beasts still on guard.

Ciaran had pulled the wand from his
girdle. The Kalds started up, and Ciaran
got ready to fight them. But Bas said,
“Wait.”

He stepped forward. The Kalds watched
him with their blood-pink eyes, yawning
and whimpering with animal nervousness.
The boy’s dark gaze burned. The grey
brutes cringed and shivered and then
dropped flat, hiding their faces against the
stone.

“Telepaths,” said Bas to Ciaran, “and
obedient to the strongest mind. The
androids know that. The Kalds weren’t
put there to stop me physically, but to
send the androids warning if I came.”

Ciaran shivered. “So they’ll be waiting.”

“Yes, little man. They’ll be waiting.”

They went down the long tunnel and
stepped out on the floor of the pit.

28 PLANET

I T WAS curiously silent. The fires had
died in the forges. There was no sound
of hammering, no motion. Only blazing
lights and a great stillness, like someone
holding his breath. There was no one in
sight.

The metal monster climbed up the pit.
It was finished now. The intricate maze of
grids and , balances in its belly murmured
with the strength that spun up through it
from the core of the planet. It was like a
vast spider, making an invisible thread of
power to wrap around the world and hold
it, to be sucked dry.

An army of Kalds began to move on
silent feet, out from the screening tangle
of sheds and machinery.

The androids weren’t serious about that.
It was just a skirmish, a test to see whether
Bas had been weakened by his age-long
sleep. He hadn’t been. The Kalds looked
at the Stone of Destiny and from there
to Bas’ grey eyes, cringed, whimpered, and
lay flat.

Bas whispered, “Their minds are closed
to me, but I can feel — the androids are
working, preparing some trap . . .”

His eyes were closed now, his young
face set with concentration. “They don’t
want me to see, but my mind is older than
theirs, and better trained, and I have the
power of the Stone. I can see a control
panel. It directs the force of their ma-
chine . . .”

He began to move, then, rapidly, out
across the floor. His eyes were still closed.
It seemed he didn’t need them for seeing.

People began to come out from behind
the sheds and the cooling forges. Blank-
faced people with empty eyes. Many of
them, making a wall of themselves against
Bas.

Ciaran cried out, “Mouse . . . !”

She was there. Her body was there,
thin and erect in the crimson tunic. Her
black hair was still wild around her small
brown face. But Mouse, the Mouse that
Ciaran knew, was dead behind her dull
black eyes. Ciaran whispered, “Mouse . .

The slaves flowed in and held the two of
them, clogged in a mass of unresponsive
bodies.

“Can’t you free them, Bas?”

“Not yet. Not now. There isn’t time.”

STORIES

“Can’t you do with them what you did
with the Kalds?”

“The androids control their minds
through hypnosis. If I fought that con-
trol, the struggle would blast their minds
to death or idiocy. And there isn’t time
. . .” There was sweat on his smooth
young forehead. “I’ve got to get through.

I don’t want to kill them . . .”

Ciaran looked at Mouse. “No,” he said
hoarsely.

“But I may have to, unless . . . Wait!

I can channel the power of the Stone
through my own brain, because there’s an
affinity between us. Vibration, cell to cell.
The androids won’t have made a definite
command against music. Perhaps I can
jar their minds open, just enough, so that
you can call them with your harp, as you
called me.”

A tremor almost of pain ran through the
boy’s body.

“Lead them away, Ciaran. Lead them as
far as you can. Otherwise many of them
will die. And hurry!”

Bas raised the Stone of Destiny in his
clasped hands and pressed it to his fore-
head. And Ciaran took his harp.

He was looking at Mouse when he set
the strings to singing. That was why it
wasn’t hard to play as he did. It was
something from him to Mouse. A prayer.
A promise. His heart held out on a song.

The music rippled out across the packed
mass of humanity. At first they didn’t
hear it. Then there was a stirring and a
sigh, a dumb, blind reaching. Somewhere
the message was getting through the dark-
ness clouding their minds. A message of
hope. A memory of red sunlight on green
hills, of laughter and home and love.

Ciaran let the music die to a whisper
under his fingers, and the people moved
forward, toward him, wanting to hear.

He began to walk away, slowly, trailing
the harp-song over his shoulder — and they
followed. Haltingly, in twos and threes,
until the whole mass broke and flowed like
water in his wake.

Bas was gone, his slim young body slip-
ping fast through the broken ranks of the
crowd.

Ciaran caught one more glimpse of
Mouse before he lost her among the others.
She was crying, without knowing or re-
membering why.

THE JEWEL OF BAS 29

If Bas died, if Bas was defeated, she
would never know nor remember.

C IARAN led them as far as he could,
clear to the wall of the pit. He stopped
playing. They stopped, too, standing like
cattle, looking at nothing, with eyes turned
inward to their clouded dreams.

Ciaran left them there, running out alone
across the empty floor.

He followed the direction Bas had taken.
He ran, fast, but it was like a nightmare
where you run and run and never get any-
where. The lights glared down and the
metal monster sighed and churned high up
over his head, and there was no other sound,
no other movement but his own.

Then, abruptly, the lights went out.

He stumbled on, hitting brutally against
unseen pillars, falling and scrambling in
scrap heaps. And after an eternity he saw
light again, up ahead.

The Light he had seen before, here in the
pit. The glorious opalescent light that drew
a man’s mind and held it fast to be chained.
Ciaran crept in closer.

There was a control panel on a stone
dais — ^a meaningless jumbled mass of dials
and wires. The androids stood before it.
One of them was bent over, its yellowish
hands working delicately with the controls.
The other stood erect beside it, holding a
staff. The metal ball at the top was open,
spilling the opalescent blaze into the dark-
ness.

Ciaran crouched in the shelter of a pillar,
shielding his eyes. Even now he wanted
to walk into that light and be its slave.

The android with the staff said harshly,
“Can’t you find the wave length? He
should have been dead by now.”

The bending one tensed and then straight-
ened, the burning light sparkling across its
metal sheath. Its eyes were black and
limitless, like evil itself, and no more
human.

“Yes,” it said. “I have it.”

The light began to burst stronger from
the staff, a swirling dangerous fury of it.

Ciaran was hardly breathing. The light-
source, whatever it was, was part of the
power of the Stone of Destiny. Wave
lengths meant nothing to him, but it seemed
the danger was to the Stone — and Bas
carried it.

The android touched the staff. The light
died, clipped off as the metal ball closed.

“If there ’s any power left in the Stone,”
it whispered, “our power-wave will blast
its subatomic reserve — and Bas the Im-
mortal with it!”

Silence. And then in the pitch darkness
a coal began to glow.

It came closer. It grew brighter, and a
smudged reflection behind and above it
became the head and shoulders of Bas the
Immortal.

The android whispered, “Stronger !
Hurry!”

A yellowish hand made a quick adjust-
ment. The Stone of Destiny burned
brighter. It burst with light. It was like a
sunball, stabbing its hot fury into the dark-
ness.

The android whispered, "More!”

The Stone filled all the pit with a deadly
blaze of glory.

Bas stopped, looking up at the dais. He
grinned. A naked boy, beautiful with
youth, his grey eyes veiled and sleepy under
dark lashes.

He threw the Stone of Destiny up on the
dais. An idle boy tossing stones at a
treetop.

Light. An explosion of it, without sound,
without physical force. Ciaran dropped
flat on his face behind the pillar. After a
long time he raised his head again. The
overhead lights were on, and Bas stood on
the dais beside two twisted, shining lumps
of man-made soulless men.

The android flesh had taken the radia-
tion as leather takes heat, warping, twist-
ing, turning black.

“Poor freaks,” said Bas softly. “They
were like me, with no place in the universe
that belonged to them. So they dreamed,
too — only their dreams were evil.”

He stooped and picked up something — a
dull, dark stone, a thing with no more
life nor light than a waterworn pebble.

He sighed and rolled it once between
his palms, and let it drop.

“If they had had time to learn their
new machine a little better, I would never
have lived to reach them in time.” He
glanced down at Ciaran, standing uncer-
tainly below. “Thanks to you, little man,
they didn’t have quite time enough.”

He gestured to a staff. “Bring it, and
I’ll free your Mouse.”

30 PLANET

VII

A long time afterward Mouse and
Ciaran and Bas the Immortal stood
in the opal-tinted glow of the great room
of the crux ansata. Outside the world
was normal agmn, and safe. Bas had left
full instructions about controlling and
tending the centrifugal power plant.

The slaves were freed, going home across
the Forbidden Plains — forbidden no longer.
The Kalds were sleeping, mercifully; the
big sleep from which they would never
wake. The world was free, for humanity
to make or mar on its own responsibility.

Mouse stood very close to Ciaran, her
arm around his waist, his around her
shoulders. Crimson rags mingling with
yellow ; fair shaggy hair mixing with black.
Bas smiled at them.

“Now,” he said, “I can be happy, until
the planet itself is dead.”

“You won’t stay with us? Our grati-
tude, our love. ...”

“Will be gone with the coming gener-
ations. No, little man. I built myself
a world where I belong — ^the only world
where I can ever belong. And I’ll be
happier in it than any of you, because it
is my world — free of strife and ugliness
and suffering. A beautiful world, for me
and Marsali.”

There was a radiance about him that
Ciaran would put into a song some day,
only half understanding.

“I don’t envy you,” whispered Bas, and
smiled. Youth smiling in a spring dawn.
“Think of us sometimes, and be jealous.”
He turned and walked away, going lightly

STOtUES

over the wide stone floor and up the steps
to the dais. Ciaran struck the harpstings.
He sent the music flooding up against the
high vault, filling all the rocky space with
a thrumming melody.

He sang. The tune he had sung for
Mouse, on the 'ridge above the burning
sea. A simple tune, about two people in
love.

Bas lay down on the couch of furs and
colored silks, soft on the shaft of the
stone cross. He looked back at them once,
smiling. One slim white arm raised in
a brief salute and swept down across the
black stone.

The milky light rose on the platform.
It wavered, curdled, and thickened to a wall
of warm pearl. Through it, for a mo-
ment, they could see him, his dark head
pillowed on his forearm, his body sprawled
in careless, angular grace. Then there
was only the warm, soft shell of light.

Ciaran’s harp whispered to silence. The
tunnel into the pit was sealed. Mouse
and Ciaran went out through the golden
doors and closed them, very quietly — doors
that would never be opened again as long
as the world lived.

Then they came into each other’s arms,
and kissed.

Rough, tight arms on living flesh, lips
that bruised and breaths that mingled,
hot with life. Temper and passion, empty
bellies, a harp that sang in crowded market
squares, and no roof to fight under but
the open sky.

And Ciaran didn’t envy the dark-haired
boy, dreaming on the stone cross.

BUY WAR SAVINGS

BONDS AND STAMPS

THE AVENGER

By STUART FUEMING

Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird snper-monsters
who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tin^ thing—

like calls to like.

Illustration by Ingeh

P ETER K ARSON was dead. He had
been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from
the crushed ruin of his face, trickling
down into his sodden sleeve, and falling.

drop by slow drop, from his fingertips.
His head was tilted over the back of the
chair at a queer, unnatural angle, so that
the light made deep pools of shadow where
his eyes had been.

31

32 PLANET

There was no sound in the room except
for the small splashing the blood made as it
dropped into the sticky pool on the floor.
The great banks of machinery around the
walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.

I rose and walked over to the window.
Outside, the stars were as before: tiny,
myriad points of light, infinitely far away.
They had not changed, and yet they were
suddenly no longer friendly. They were
cold and alien. It was I who had changed:
something inside me was dead, like the
machinery, and like Peter.

It was a kind of indefinable emptiness.
I do not think it was what Peter called
an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do
with logic, either. It was just an emptiness
— a void that could not be filled by eating
or drinking.

It was not a longing. I had no desire
that things should be otherwise than they
were. I did not even wish that Peter were
not dead, for reason had told me that he
had to die. That was the end of it.

But the void was still there, unexplain-
able and impossible to ignore. For the first
time in all my life I had found a problem
that I could not solve. Strange, disturbing
sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly —
something moved on the skin of my cheek.
I raised a hand to it, slowly.

A tear was trickling down my cheek.

Y oung Peter Karson put the last black-
print down and sighed with satisfac-
tion. His dream was perfect; the Citadel
was complete, every minutest detail pro-
vided for — on paper. In two weeks they
would be laying the core, and then the
metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of
power, until at last it lay finished, a living
thing.

Then there would remain only the task
of blasting the great, shining ship out into
the carefully-calculated orbit that would
be its home. In his mind’s eye he could
see it, slowly wheeling, like a second satel-
lite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering
knowledge into its insatiable mechanisms.
He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its
interlocking segments; the meteor deflec-
tors, the air renewal system, the mighty

STORIES

engines at the stern — all the children of his
brain.

Out there, away from the muffling, dis-
torting, damnable blanket of atmosphere,
away from Earth’s inexorable gravitational
pull, would be a laboratory such as man
had never seen. The ship would be filled
with the sounds of busy men and women,
wresting secrets from the reluctant ether.
A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps
even a new biochemistry.

A discordant note suddenly entered his
fantasy. He looked up, conscious of the
walls of his office again, but could see
nothing unusual. Still, that thin, dark
whisper of dread was at the back of his
mind. Slowly, as if reluctantly compelled,
he turned around to face the window at
his back.

There, outside the window, fifty stories
up, a face was staring impassively in at
him. That was the first impression he
got; just a face, staring. Then he saw,
with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered
off into a formless, shriveled body.

For a moment or an eternity it hung
there, unsupported, the bulging eyes star-
ing at him. Then it grew misty at the
edges. It dissolved slowly away and was
gone.

“Lord !” he said.

He stared after it, stunned into immo-
bility. Down in the street somewhere, a
portable video was shrilling a popular
song; after a moment he heard the faint
swish of a tube car going past. Every-
thing was normal. Nothing, on examina-
tion, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.

One part of his brain had been shocked
into its shell. It was hiding from the
thing that had hurt it, and it refused to
respond. But the other part was going
calmly, lucidly on, quite without his voli-
tion. It considered the possibility that he
had gone temporarily insane, and decided
that this was probable.

Hardly knowing what he did, he found
a cigarette and lit it. His hands were
shaking. He stared at them dully, and
then he reached over to the newsbox on
his desk, and switched it on.

There were flaring red headlines.

Relief washed over him, leaving him
breathless. He was horrified, of course,

THE AVENGER 33

but only abstractedly. For the moment
he could only be glad that what he had
seen was terrible reality rather than even
more terrible illusion.

INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.

200 DEAD

Then lines of type, and farther down:

50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
He pressed the stud. The roll was full
of them.

MOON SHIP DESTROYED
IN TRANSIT

NO COMMUNICATION FROM
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
The item below the last one said :
Pacifica, June 7 — The World Police are
mobilizing, for the first time in fifty years.
The order was made public early this
morning by R. Stein, Secretary of the
Council, who said in part:

“The reason for this . . . order must
be apparent to all civilized peoples. For
the Invaders have spared no part of this
planet in their depredations : they have
laid HongKong waste ; they have ter-
rorized London ; they have destroyed the
lives of citizens in every member state and
in every inhabited area. There can be few
within reach of printed reports or my
words who have not seen the Invaders,
or whose friends have not seen them.

“The peoples of the world, then, know
what they are, and know that we face the
most momentous struggle in our history.
We face an enemy superior to ourselves
in every way.

“Since the Invaders first appeared in
Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours ago, they
have not once acknowledged our attempts
to communicate, or in any way taken no-
tice of our existence as reasoning beings.
They have treated us precisely as we, in
less enlightened days, might have treated
a newly-discovered race of lower animals.
They have not attacked our centers of
government, nor immobilized our commu-
nications, nor laid seige to our defenses.
But in instance after instance, they have
done as they would with us. They have
examined us, dissected us, driven us mad,

3 — Planet — Spring

killed us with no discernable provocation;
and this is more intolerable than any
normal invasion.

“I have no fear that the people of Earth
will fail to meet this challenge, for there
is no alternative. Not only our individual
lives are threatened, but our existence as
a race. We must, and will, destroy the
Invaders !”

Peter sank back in his chair, the full
shock of it striking him for the first time.
“Will we?” he asked himself softly.

I T WAS only two stories down the mov-
ing ramp to Lorelei Cooper’s labora-
tory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds,
running, and stumbled to a halt in front
of the door marked “Radiation.” She
had set her door mechanism to “Etaoin
Shrdlu,” principally because he hated
double-talk. He mouthed the syllables, had
to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through
the door as soon as it opened far enough
to admit him.

Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled
eyes and a smear of grease on her chin,
looked up from a huge ledger at the end
of the room. One blonde eyebrow arched
in the quizzical expression he knew so
well.

“What makes, Peter my love?” she
asked, and bent back to the ledger. Then
she did a double-take, looked at his
face intently, and said, “Darling, what’s
wrong ?”

He said, “Have you seen the news re-
cently ?”

She frowned. “Why, no — Harry and
I have been working for thirty-six hours
straight. Haven’t seen anybody, haven’t
heard anything. Why?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. Where’s your
newsbox ?”

She came around the desk and put her
hands on his shoulders. “Pete, you know
I haven’t one — it bores me or upsets me,
depending on whether there’s trouble or
not. What—”

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” he said. “But
you have a scanner ?”

“Yes, of course. But really, Pete — ”
“You’ll understand in a minute. Turn
it on, Lorelei.”

She gazed at him levelly for a moment,
kissed him impulsively, and then walked

34 PLANET

over to the video panel on the wall and
swept a mountain of papers away from
in front of it. She turned the selector
dial to “News” and pressed the stud.

A faint wash of color appeared on the
panel, strengthened slowly, and suddenly
leapt into full brilliance.

Lorelei caught her breath.

It was a street scene in the Science
City of Manhattan, flooded by the warm
spring sunshine. Down on the lowest
level, visible past the transport and pas-
senger tubes, the parks and moving ways
should have been dotted with colorful,
holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a
swiftly-widening circle. They disappeared
into buildings, and the ways snatched
them up, and in a heartbeat they were
gone.

There were left only two blood-red,
malignant monstrosities somehow defiling
the air they floated in; and below them, a
pitiful huddle of flesh no longer recog-
nizable as human beings. They were not
dead, those men and women, but they
wanted to be. Their bodies had been
impossibly joined, fused together into a
single obscene, floundering mass of help-
less protoplasm. The thin moaning that
went up from them was more horrible
than any cry of agony.

“The Invaders are here, citizens,” the
commentator was saying in a strangled
voice. “Stay off the streets. Hide your-
selves. Stay off the streets. ...” His
voice droned on, but neither of them heard
it.

L orelei buried her head on his chest,
clutching at him desperately. “Peter 1”
she said faintly. “Why do they broadcast
such things?”

“They have to,” he told her grimly.
“There will be panics and suicides, and
they know it ; but they have to do it. This
isn’t like a war, where the noncombatants’
morale has to be kept up. There aren’t
going to be an noncombatants, this time.
Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them — and then
it may not be enough.”

The viewpoint of the teleo sender
changed as the two red beings soared away
from their victims and angled slowly up
the street. Peter reached out to switch

STORIES

off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt
his muscles tense abruptly, looked back at
the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white
structure that dominated the rest.

“That’s the Atlas building,” she said
unbelievingly. “Us!”

“Yes.”

Silently, they counted stories as the two
beings rose. Forty-five . . . forty-six
. . . forty-seven . . . forty-eight. In-
evitably, they halted. Then they faded
slowly. It was impossible to say whether
they had gone through the solid wall, or
simply melted away.

The man and woman clung together,
waiting.

There was a thick, oppressive silence,
full of small rustlings and other faint
sounds that were no longer normal. Then,
very near, a man screamed in a high, un-
human voice. The screamed dwindled into
a throaty gurgle and died, leaving silence
again.

Peter’s lips were cold with sweat. Tiny
nerves in his face and arms were jump-
ing convulsively. His stomach crawled.
He thrust the girl away from him and
started toward the inner room.

“Wait here,” he mouthed.

She was after him, clinging to his arms.
“No, Peter! Don’t go in there! Peter!”
But he pushed her away again, woodenly,
and stalked forward.

There was a space in the middle of the
room where machinery had been cleared
away to make room for an incompleted
setup. Peter walked down the narrow
aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms
and rows of animal cages, and paused just
short of it.

The two red beings were there, form-
less bodies hazy in midair, the distorted,
hairless skulls in profile, staring at some-
thing outside his range of vision

P ETER forced himself forward another
step. Little Harry Kanin, Lorelei’s as-
sistant, was crumpled in a corner, half
supported by the broad base of an X-ray
chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated.
His glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow
pleading, stared at nothingness straight
ahead of him.

The Invaders ignored Peter, staring ex-
pressionlessly down at Kanin. In a mo-

THE AVENGER

ment Peter realized what they were doing
to him. He stood, paralyzed with horror,
and watched it happen.

The little man’s body was sagging, ever
so slowly, as if he were relaxing tiredly.
His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his
spread legs grew wider and more shape-
less, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.

When it was over, the thing that had
been Kanin was a limp, boneless puddle
of flesh. Peter could not look at it.

There was a scream in his throat that
would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the
still-hovering monsters and said in a ter-
rible voice, “Why? Why?’’

The nearest being turned slowly to re-
gard him. Its lips did not move, but there
was a tiny sound in Peter’s brain, a thin,
dry whispering.

The scream was welling up. He fought
it down and listened.

“Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmi-
amiamimami. . . .”

The face was staring directly into his,
the bulging eyes hypnotic. The ears were
small, no more than excresences of skin.
The narrow lips seemed sealed together ; a
thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines
of age, not emotion. Only the eyes w'ere
alive.

. . rasivUopreatadvuonistuwurncchtu-
smlgkelglawwalinom. . . ."

“I can’t understand,” he cried wildly.
“What do you want?”

“. . . morofelcovisyanniamiwurlcctaunn-
toiis.”

He heard a faint sound behind him, and
whirled. It was the first time he had real-
ized that Lorelei had followed him. She
stood there, swaying, very pale, looking at
the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly. , . .

“Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoct-

pre."

His voice was hoarse. “Don’t look!
Don’t — Go back!” The horrible, mind-
less noise in his throat was almost beyond
his power to repress. His insides writhed
to thrust it out.

She didn’t see him. Her eyes glazed,
and she dropped limply to the floor.

The scream came out then. Before he
knew, even, that he could hold it back no

35

longer, his mouth was wide open, his
muscles tensed, his fingernails slicing his
palms. It echoed with unbelievable vol-
ume in the room. It was a scream to split
eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.

OMEBODY said, “Doctor!”

He wanted to say, “Yes, get a doc-
tor. Lorelei — ” "but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn’t seem to get
it to work properly.

He tried again. “Doctor.”

“Yes ?” A gentle, masculine voice.

He opened his eyes with an effort. There
was a blurred face before him; in a mo-
ment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-
shaven chin contrasted oddly with the hag-
gard circles under the eyes. There was
a clean, starched odor.

“Where am I?” he said. He tried to
turn his head, but a firm hand pressed him
back into the sheets.

“You’re in a hospital. Just lie quietly,
please.”

He tried to get up again. “Where’s
Lorelei ?”

“She’s well, and you’ll see her soon.
Now lie quietly. You’ve been a very sick
man.”

Peter sank back in the bed. The room
was coming into focus. He looked around
him slowly. He felt very weak, but per-
fectly lucid.

“Yes . . .’’he said. “How long have
I been here. Doctor?”

The man hesitated, looked at him in-
tently. “Three months,” he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions
to a nurse, and then went away.

Peter’s head began spinning just a little.
Glass clinked from a metal stand near his
head ; the nurse bent over him with a glass
half full of milky fluid. It tasted awful,
but she made him drink it all.

In a moment he began to relax, and the
room got fuzzy again. Just before he
drifted off, he said sleepily, “You can’t
— fool me. It’s been more — ^than three —
months.”

He was right. All the nurses, and even
Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he kept ask-
ing them why he couldn’t see Lorelei, and
finally he wormed it out of them. It had
been nine and a half months, not three,
and he’d been in a coma all that time.

36 PLANET

Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.

“She was only suffering from ordinary
shock,” Arnold explained. “Seing that
assistant of hers — it was enough to knock
anybody out, especially a woman. But
you stood actual mental contact with them
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we
know — you talked a lot. It’s a miracle
you’re alive, and rational.”

“But where is she?” Peter complained.
“You still haven’t explained why I haven’t
been able to see her.”

Arnold frowned. “All right,” he said.
“I guess you’re strong enough to take it.
She’s underground, with the rest of the
women and children, and a good two-thirds
of the male population. That’s where
you’ll go, as soon as you’re well enough
to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago.”

“But why?” Peter whispered.

Arnold’s strong jaw knotted. “We’re
hiding,” he said. “Everything else has
failed.”

Peter couldn’t think of anything to say.
Dr. Arnold’s voice went on after a mo-
ment, musingly. “We’re burrowing into
the earth, like worms. It didn’t take us
long to find out we couldn’t kill them.
They didn’t even take any notice of our
attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about
fifty of them together at one time, and
attacked with flame guns and a new secret
weapon. It didn’t hurt them, but it an-
noyed them. It was the first time they’d
been annoyed, I think. They blew up
half a state, and it’s still smoldering.”

“And since then?” Peter asked huskily.

“Since then, we’ve been burrowing. All
the big cities. ... It would be an impos-
sible task if we tried to include all the
thinly-populated areas, of course, but it
doesn’t matter. By the tifne we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the
earth’s population, the other three-quarters
will be dead, or worse.’^

“I wonder,” Peter said shakily, “if I
am strong enough to take it.”

Arnold laughed harshly. “You are.
You’ve got to be. You’re part of our last
hope, you see.”

“Our last hope?”

“Yes. You’re a scientist.”

“I see,” said Peter. And for the first

STORIES

time, he thought of the Citadel. No plan
leaped full-borp into his mind, but, maybe,
he thought, there’s a chance. . . .

I T WASN’T very big, the thing that had
been his shining dream. It lay there
in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-
steel not more than five hundred meters
in diameter, where the Citadel was to have
been a thousand. It wouldn’t house a
hundred scientists, eagerly delving into the
hinterland of research. The huge compart-
ments weren’t filled with the latest equip-
ment for chemical and physical experi-
ment; instead, there was compressed oxy-
gen there, and concentrated food, enough
to last a lifetime.

It was a new world, all by itself ; or
else it was a tomb. And there was one
other change, one that you couldn’t see
from the outside. The solid meters of
lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep
out cosmic rays, were gone.

A man had just finished engraving the
final stroke on its nameplate, to the left
of the airlock — The Avenger. He stepped
away now, and joined the group a little
distance away, silently waiting.

Lorelei said, “You can’t do it. I won’t
let you! Peter — ”

“Darling,” he began wearily.

“Don’t throw your life away! Give us
time — there must be another way.”

“There’s no other way,” Peter said. He
gripped her arms tightly, as if he could
compel her to understand by the sheer
pressure of his fingers. “Darling, listen
to me. We’ve tried everything. We’ve
gone underground, but that’s only delaying
the end. They still come down here, only
not as many. The mortality rate is up,
the suicide rate is up, the birth rate is
down, in spite of anything we can do.
You’ve seen the figures: we’re riding a
curve that ends in extinction fifty years
from now.

“They’ll live, and we’ll die, because
they’re a superior race. We’re a million
years too far back even to understand what
they are or where they came from. Be-
sides them, we’re apes. There’s only one
answer.”

She was crying now, silently, with great
racking sobs that shook her slender body.
But he went remorselessly on.

“Out there, in space, the cosmics change

THE AVEBiGER 37

unshielded life. They make tentacles out
of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve
toes, or a dozen ears — or a better brain.
Out of those millions of possible muta-
tions, there’s one that will save the human
race. We can’t fight them, but a superman
could. That’s our only chance. Lorelei
— darling — don’t you see that ?”

She choked, “But why can’t you take me
along ?”

He stared unseeingly past her wet, up-
turned face. “You know why,’’ he said
bitterly. “Those rays are strong. They
don’t only work on embryos; they change
adult life forms, too. I have one chance
in seven of staying alive. You’d have
one chance in a million of staying beau-
tiful. I couldn’t stand that. I’d kill my-
self, and then humanity would die, too.
You’d be their murderer.’’

Her sobs gradually died away. She
straightened slowly until he no longer
had to support her, but all the vitality and
resilience was gone out of her body. “All
right,’’ she said in a lifeless voice. “You’ll
come back, Peter.’’

He turned away suddenly, not trusting
himself to kiss her goodbye. A line from
an old film kept echoing through his head.
‘‘They’ll come back — but not as boys!”

We’ll come back, but not as men.

We’ll come back, but not as elephants.

We’ll come back, but not as octopi.

H e was trembling violently. He ran
the last few steps, stumbled into the
airlock, and pressed the stud that would
seal the door behind him. We’ll come
hack. . . . He heard the massive disk
sink home, closing him off. Then he sank
down on the floor of the airlock and put
his head in shaking hands.

After a while he roused himself, closed
the inner door of the lock behind him, and
walked down the long corridor into the
control chamber. The shining banks of
keys were there, waiting for his touch ;
he slumped down before them and list-
lessly closed the contact of the visiplate.

He swung its field slowly, scanning for
the last time the bare walls of the under-
ground chamber, making sure that all the
spectators had retired out of the way of
the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and
thrust down.

Acceleration pressed him deep into his
chair. In the visiplate, the heavy doors
that closed the tunnel above him flashed
back, one by one. The energy-charged
screen flickered off to let him pass, and
closed smoothly behind him. The last
doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the dis-
tance. It was done.'

He flashed on out, past the moon, past
Mars, over the asteroid belt. The days
merged into weeks, then months, and fi-
nally, far out. The Avenger curved into
an orbit and held it. The great motors
died, and the silence pressed in about him.

Already he could feel the invisible rays
burning resistlessly through his flesh as if
it were water, shifting the cells of his
body, working its slow, monstrous alchemy
upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and
hair, and then he smashed all the mirrors
in the ship.

The embryos were pulsing with unnatu-
ral life, even in the suspended animation
of their crystal cells. One by one he al-
lowed them to mature, and after weeks
or years destroyed the monstrosities that
came from the incubators. Time went by,
meaninglessly. He ate when he was hun-
gry, slept when his driving purpose let
him, and worked unceasingly, searching for
the million-to-one chance.

He stared sometimes through changed
eyes at the tiny blue star that was Earth,
wondering if the race he had left behind
still burrowed in its worm-tunnels, digging
deeper and deeper away from the sunlight.
But after a time he ceased even to wonder.

And one changeling-child he did not
destroy. He fed knowledge to its eager
brain, and watched it through the swift
years, with a dawning hope. . . .

P ETER closed the diary. “The rest
you know, Robert,’’ he said.

“Yes,” I told him; “I was that child. I
am the millionth mutation you were search-
ing for.”

His eyes glowed suddenly in their mis-
shapen sockets. “You are. Your brain is
as superior to mine as mine is to an an-
thropoid’s. You solve instinctively prob-
lems that would take our mechanical
computers hours of work. You are a
superman.”

38 PLANET

“I am without your imperfections,” I
said, flexing my arms.

He rose and strode nervously over to the
window. I watched him as he stood there,
outlined against the blazing galaxies. He
had changed but little in the years that I
had known him. His lank gray hair strag-
gled over his sunken eyes ; his cheeks were
blobbed with excresences of flesh ; one
corner of his mouth was drawn up in a
perpetual grin. He had a tiny sixth finger
on his left hand.

He turned again, and I saw the old scar
on his cheek where I had once accidentally
drawn one of my talons across his face.

“And now,” he said softly, “we will go
home. I’ve waited so long — keeping the
control chamber and the engine room
locked away from you, not telling you,
even, about Earth until now — ^because I
had to be sure. But now, the waiting is
over.

“They’re still there. I’m sure of it — ^the
people, and the Invaders. You can kill
the Invaders, Robert.”

He looked at me, a little oddly, almost
as if he had some instinctive knowledge
of what was to come. But he went on
swiftly, “On Earth we had a saying:
‘Fight fire with fire.’ That is the way it
will be with you. You are completely,
coldly logical, just as they are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer
them.”

I said, “That is the reason why we will
not go back to Earth.”

He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands
trembling. “What — what did you say?”

I repeated it patiently.

“But why?” he cried, sinking down into
the chair before me. In an instant all the
joy had gone out of him. I could not
understand his sufifering, but I could rec-
ognize it.

“You yourself have said it,” I told him.
“I am a being of logic, just as the beings
who have invaded your planet are. I do
not comprehend the tlnngs which you call
hate, fear, joy and lo^e, as they do not.
If I went to Earth, I would use your
people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason
to kill the invaders. They are more nearly
kin to me than your people.”

STORIES

P ETER’S eyes were dull, his limbs
slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.

His voice trembled when he said, “But
if I ask you to kill them, and not my peo-
ple ?”

“To do so would be illogical.”

He waved his hands helplessly. “Grati-
tude ?” he muttered.

“No, you don’t understand that, either.”
Then he cried suddenly, “But I am your
friend, Robert!”

“I do not understand ‘friend,’ ” I said.

I did understand “gratitude,” a little. It
was a reciprocal arrangement: I did what
Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done
things for me. Very well, then we must
not go back. It was very simple, but I
knew that lie could not comprehend it.

I tried to explain it to him, however.
But he only stared at me, with an ex-
pression on his face that I had never seen
there before, and that, somehow, I did not
like to see. It was disquieting, and so I
hastened to the end that I knew was in-
evitable.

“Will you promise,” I asked, “to abide
by my decision ?”

He kept on looking at me, his lips
trembling in their fixed grin. “No!” he
said. “Never! You’ll change your mind
someday — you must! We’ll go back, then
— I’ll make you go back ! Lorelei — ” He
collapsed, sobbing, his head sunk in his
arms.

I knew that what he said was partly true.
Some day, when I slept, as I would have
to within months, he would go down to
the control room, set the keys for the re-
turn, and lock the combinations of the
doors behind him again. Sooner or later,
in spite of me. The Avenger would go
home. There was only one thing to do.

He was still slumped in his chair, his
body shaken by his sobs. I rose silently,
and stood for a moment looking down at
him. It was best that it happen now; it
was what he would have called “mercy.”

I extended my artns, looking at the
corded, black-furred length of them. I
looked down at him once more, saying a
silent farewell; and then I clasped his
gray head, very quickly, between my hands.

The Monster Maker

By RAY BRADBURY

Gnnther,” the official orders read. It tvas to langh! For Click
aud Irish were maroonc^d on the pirate’s asteroid— their only
weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.

Illttstratton by Doolin

S UDDENLY, it was there. There rack-spin film between his fingers, and he
wasn’t time to blink or speak or get knew he was getting a damned sweet pic-
scared. Qick Hathaway’s camera was ture of everything that was happening,
loaded and he stood there listening to it The picture of Marnagan hunched Huge

39

40 PLANET

over the control-console, wrenching levers,
jamming studs with freckled fists. And
out in the dark of the fore-part there was
space and a star-sprinkling and this meteor
coming like blazing fury.

Click Hathaway felt the ship move un-
der him like a sensitive animal’s skin. And
then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist
and knocked the rear-jets flat, and the ship
spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.

There was plenty of noise. Too damned
much. Hathaway only knew he was
picked up and hurled against a lever-bank,
and that Marnagan wasn’t long in follow-
ing, swearing loud words. Click remem-
bered hanging to his camera and gritting
to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that
had been of the meteor! A sweeter one
still of Marnagan beating hell out of the
controls and keeping his words to himself
until just now.

It got quiet. It got so quiet you could
almost hear the asteroids rushing up, cold
blue and hard. You could hear your heart
kicking a tom-tom between your sick stom-
ach and your empty lungs.

Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed
Marnagan because he was the nearest
thing, and held on. You came hunting for
a space-raider and you ended up cradled in
a slab-sized Irishman’s arms, diving at a
hunk of metal death. What a fade-out !

“Irish!” he heard himself say. “Is this
IT?”

“Is this what?” yelled Marnagan inside
his helmet.

“Is this where the Big Producer yells
CUT!?”

Marnagan fumed. "I’ll die when I’m
damned good and ready. And when I’m
ready I’ll inform you and you can picture
me profile for Cosmic Films !”

They both waited, thrust against the ship-
side and held by a hand of gravity ; listen-
ing to each other’s breathing hard in the
earphones.

The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it
struck again. It turned end over and
stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed ;
he and Marnagan rattled around — ^human
dice in a croupier’s cup. The shell of the
ship burst, air and energy flung out.

Hathaway screamed the air out of his
lungs, but his brain was thinking quick
crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes
in life never reach film, or an audience.

STORIES

Like this one, dammit! Like this one!
His brain spun, racketing like the instan-
taneous, flicking motions of his camera.

S ILENCE came and engulfed all the
noise, ate it up and swallowed it.
Hathaway shook his head, instinctively
grabbed at the camera locked to his mid-
belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted
wreckage, cold that pierced through his
vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of
the wreckage into that silence.

He didn’t know what he was doing until
he found the camera in his fingers as if it
had grown there when he was born. He
stood there, thinking “Well, I’ll at least
have a few good scenes on film. I’ll — ”

A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a
crash. Marnagan elevated seven feet of
bellowing manhood from the wreck.

“Hold it !” cracked Hathaway’s high
voice. Marnagan froze. The camera
whirred. “Low angle shot ; Interplanetary
Patrolman emerges unscathed from aste-
roid crackup. Swell stuff. I’ll get a raise
for this!”

“From the toe of me boot !” snarled
Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shoulders
flexed inside his vac-suit. “I might’ve died
in there, and you nursin’ that film-contrap-
tion!”

Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly.
“I never thought of that. Marnagan die?
I just took it for granted you’d come
through. You always have. Funny, but
you don’t think about dying. You try not
to.” Hathaway stared at his gloved hand,
but the gloving was so thick and heavy he
couldn’t tell if it was shaking. Muscles in
his bony face went down, pale. “Where
are we?”

“A million miles from nobody.”

They stood in the middle of a pocked,
time-eroded meteor plain that stretched off,
dipping down into silent indigo and a rash
of stars. Overhead, the sun poised; black
and stars all around it, making it look sick.

“If we walk in opposite directions. Click
Hathaway, we’d be shaking hands the other
side of this rock in two hours.” Marnagan
shook his mop of dusty red hair. “And I
promised the boys at Luna Base this time
I’d capture that Gunther lad !”

His voice stopped and the silence spoke.
Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow,
hot pumps of blood. “I checked my oxy-

THE JHONSTER MAKER

gen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing
left.”

The silence punctuated that sentence,
too. Upon the sharp meteoric rocks Hath-
away saw the tangled insides of the radio,
the food supply mashed and scattered.
They were lucky to have escaped. Or
was suffocation a better death . . .? Sixty
minutes.

They stood and looked at one another.

‘‘Damn that meteor!” said Marnagan,
hotly.,

Hathaway got hold of an idea; remem-
bering something. He said it out: “Some-
body tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a
picture of it, looked it right in the eye when
it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot. Space-
meteors are never hot and glowing. If it’s
proof you want, I’ve got it here, on film.”

Marnagan winced his freckled square of
face. “It’s not proof we need now. Click.
Oxygen. And then food. And then some
way back to Earth.”

Hathaway went on saying his thoughts :
“This is Gunther’s work. He’s here some-
where, probably laughing his guts out at
the job he did us. Oh, God, this would
make great news-release stuff if we ever
get back to Earth. I. P.’s Irish Marnagan,
temporarily indisposed by a pirate whose
dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by
name, finally wins through to a triumphant
finish. Photographed on the spot, in color,
by yours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic
Films, please notice.”

T hey started walking, fast, over the
pockfed, rubbled plain toward a bony
ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide
and awake. There wasn’t much to see, but
it was better than standing still, waiting.

Marnagan said, “We’re working on mar-
gin, and we got nothin’ to sweat with ex-
cept your suspicions about this not being
an accident. We got fifty minutes to prove
you’re right. After that — right or wrong
— you’ll be Cosmic Films prettiest unmov-
ing, unbreathin’ genius. But talk all you
like. Click. It’s times like this when we
all need words, any words, on our tongues.
You got your camera and your scoop. Talk
about it. As for me — ” he twisted his
glossy red face. “Keeping alive is me
hobby. And this sort of two-bit death I
did not order.”

Click nodded. “Gunther knows how

41

you’d hate dying this way, Irish. It’s irony
clean through. That’s probably why he
planned the meteor and the crash this
way.”

Marnagan said nothing, but his thick
lips went down at the corners, far down,
and the green eyes blazed.

They stopped, together.

“Oops!” Click said.

“Hey!” Maimagan blinked. “Did you
feel thatr

Hathaway’s body felt feathery, light as
a whisper, boneless and limbless, suddenly.
“Irish ! ‘We lost weight, coming over that
ridge !”

They ran back. “Let’s try it again.”

They tried it. They scowled at each
other. The same thing happened. “Gravity
should not act this way. Click.”

“Are you telling me? It’s man-made.
Better than that — it’s Gunther! No won-
der we fell so fast — we were dragged down
by a super-gravity set-up! Gunther’d do
anything to — did I say anything?”

Hathaway leaped backward in reaction.
His eyes widened and his hand came up,
jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a
brew of unbelievable horrors. Progeny
from Frankenstein’s ARK. Immense
crimson beasts with numerous legs and
gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures,
some tubular and fat, others like thin white
poisonous whips slashing along in the air.
Fangs caught starlight white on them.

Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at
his heels, lumbering. Sweat broke cold on
his body. The immense things rolled, slith-
ered and squirmed after him. A blast of
light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun.
Then, in Click’s ears, the Irishman’s in-
credulous bellow. The gun didn’t hurt the
creatures at all.

“Irish!” Hathaway flung himself over
the ridge, slid down an incline toward the
mouth a small cave. “This way, fella !”

Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bel-
lowing just behind him. “They’re too big;
they can’t get us in here!” Click’s voice
gasped it out, as Marnagan squeezed his
two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him. In-
stinctively, Hathaway added, “Asteroid
monsters ! My camera ! What a scene !”

“Damn your damn camera !” yelled Mar-
nagan. “They might come in!”

“Use your gun.”

“They got impervious hides. No use.

42 PLANET

Gahh! And that was a pretty chase, eh,
Click?”

“Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every
moment of it.”

“I did that.” Irish grinned, showing
white uneven teeth. “Now, what will we
be doing with these uninvited guests at
our door?”

“Let me think — ”

“Lots of time, little man. Forty more
minutes of air, to be exact.”

T hey sat, staring at the monsters
for about a minute. Hathaway felt
funny about something; didn’t know what.
Something about these monsters and Gun-
ther and —

“Which one will you be having?” asked
Irish, casually. “A red one or a blue
one ?”

Hathaway laughed nervously. “A pink
one with yellow ruffles — Good God, now
you’ve got me doing it. Joking in the face
of death.”

“Me father taught me ; keep laughing and
you’ll have Irish luck.”

That didn’t please the photographer.
“I’m an Anglo-Swede,” he pointed out.

Marnagan shifted uneasily. “Here,
now. You’re doing nothing but sitting,
looking like a little boy locked in a bed-
room closet, so take me a profile shot of
the beasties and myself.”

Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly.
“What in hell’s the use? All this swell
film shot. Nobody’ll ever see it.”

“Then,” retorted Marnagan, “we’ll de-
velop it for our own benefit ; while waitin’
for the U. S. Cavalry to come riding over
the hill to our rescue !”

Hathaway snorted. “U. S. Cavalry.”
Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramat-
ically. “Snap me this pose,” he said. “I
paid your salary to trot along, photograph-
ing, we hoped, my capture of Gunther, now
the least you can do is record peace nego-
tiations betwixt me and these pixies.”

Marnagan wasn’t fooling anybody.
Hathaway knew the superficial palaver for
nothing but a covering over the fast, furi-
ous thinking running around in that red-
cropped skull. Hathaway played the pala-
ver, too, but his mind was whirring faster
than his camera as he spun a picture of
Marnagan standing there with a useless
gun pointed at the animals.

STORIES

Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at
the monsters. Marnagan smiling for the
camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan
looking grim, without much effort, for the
camera. And then, a closeup of the thrash-
ing death wall that holed them in. Click
took them all, those shots, not saying any-
thing. Nobody fooled nobody with this
act. Death was near and they had sweaty
faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.

When Click finished filming, Irish sat
down to save oxygen, and used it up argu-
ing about Gunther, Click came back at
him:

“Gunther drew us down here, sure as
Ceres! That gravity change we felt back
on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gun-
ther’s short on men. So, what’s he do ; he
builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships
down. Space war isn’t perfect yet, guns
don’t prime true in space, trajectory is
lousy over long distances. So what’s the
best weapon, which dispenses with losing
valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of
men? Super-gravity and a couple of well-
tossed meteors. Saves all around. It’s a
good front, this damned iron pebble. From
it, Gunther strikes unseen; ships simply
crash, that’s all. A subtle hand, with all
aces.”

Marnagan rumbled. “Where is the dirty
son, then!”

“He didn’t have to appear, Irish. He
sent — them.” Hathaway nodded at the
beasts. “People crashing here die from
air-lack, no food, or from wounds caused
at the crackup. If they survive all that —
the animals tend to them. It all looks like
Nature was responsible. See how subtle
his attack is? Looks like accidental death
instead of murder, if the Patrol happens to
land and finds us. No reason for undue
investigation, then.”

“I don’t see no Base around.”

LICK shrugged. “Still doubt it?
Okay. Look.” He tapped his cam-
era and a spool popped out onto his gloved
palm. Holding it up, he stripped it out to
its full twenty inch length, held it to the
light while it developed, smiling. It was
one of his best inventions. Self develop-
ing film. The first light struck film-surface,
destroyed one chemical, leaving imprints;
the second exposure simply hardened, se-
cured the impressions. Quick stuff.

THE JHONSTER MAKER 43

Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-
viewer in the camera’s base, Click handed
the whole thing over. “Look.”

Marnagan put the viewer up against the
helmet glass, squinted. “Ah, Click. Now,
now. This is one lousy film you invented.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a strange process’ll develop my
picture and ignore the asteroid monsters
complete.”

“What!”

Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped,
squinted, and gasped again: Pictures in
montage ; Marnagan sitting down, chatting
conversationally with nothing; Marnagan
shooting his gun at nothing; Marnagan
pretending to be happy in front of nothing.

Then, closeup — of — NOTHING!

The monsters had failed to image the
film. Marnagan was there, his hair like a
red banner, his freckled face with the blue
eyes bright in it. Maybe —

Hathaway said it, loud: “Irish! Irish!
I think I see a way out of this mess!
Her^”

He elucidated it over and over again to
the Patrolman. About the film, the beasts,
and how the film couldn’t be wrong. If
the film said the monsters weren’t there,
they weren’t there.

“Yeah,” said Marnagan. “But step out-
side this cave — ”

“If my theory is correct I’ll do it, un-
afraid,” said Click.

Marnagan scowled. “You sure them
beasts don’t radiate ultra-violet or infra-
red or something that won’t come out on
film?”

“Nuts! Any color we see, the camera
sees. We’ve been fooled.”

“Hey, where you going?” Marnagan
blocked Hathaway as the smaller man tried
pushing past him.

“Get out of the way,” said Hathaway.

Marnagan put his big fists on his hips.
“If anyone is going anywhere, it’ll be me
does the going.”

“I can’t let you do that, Irish.”

“Why not?”

“You’d be going on my say-so.”

“Ain’t your say-so good enough for me ?”

“Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess — ”

“If you say them animals ain’t there,
that’s all I need. Now, stand aside, you

film developing flea, and let an Irishman
settle their bones.” He took an unneces-
sary hitch in trousers that didn’t exist ex-
cept under an inch of porous metal plate.
“Your express purpose on this voyage,
Hathaway, is taking films to be used by
the Patrol later for teaching Junior Patrol-
men how to act in tough spots. First hand
education. Poke another spool of film in
that contraption and give me profile a scan.
This is lesson number seven : Daniel Walks
Into The Lion’s Den.”

“Irish, I—”

“Shut up and load up.”

Hathaway nervously loaded the film-
slot, raised it.

“Ready, Click?”

“I — I guess so,” said Hathaway. “And
remember, think it hard, Irish. Think it
hard. There aren’t any animals — ”

“Keep me in focus, lad.”

“All the way, Irish.”

“What do they say . . .? Oh, yeah.
Action. Lights. Camera !”

Marnagan held his gun out in front of
him and still smiling took one, two, three,
four steps out into the outside world. The
monsters were waiting for him at the
fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.

Right out into the middle of them, . , .

T hat was the sweetest shot Hathaway
ever took. Marnagan and the mon-
sters !

Only now it was only Marnagan.

No more monsters.

Marnagan smiled a smile broader than
his shoulders. “Hey, Click, look at me!
I’m in one piece. Y'^hy, hell, the damned
things turned tail and ran away!”

“Ran, hell !” cried Hathaway, rushing
out, his face flushed and animated. “They
just plain vanished. They were only imag-
inative figments !”

“And to think we let them hole us in
that way. Click Hathaway, you coward!”
“Smile when you say that, Irish.”
“Sure, and ain’t I always smilin’? Ah,
Click boy, are them tears in your sweet
grey eyes?”

“Damn,” swore the photographer, em-
barrassedly. “Why don’t they put window-
wipers in these helmets ?”

“I’ll take it up with the Board, lad.”
“Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see

44 PLANET

your homely carcass in one hunk, I couldn’t
help — Look, now, about Gunther. Those
animals are part of his set-up. Explorers
who land here inadvertently, are chased
back into their ships, forced to take off.
Tourists and the like. Nothing suspicious
about animals. And if the tourists don’t
leave, the animals kill them.”

“Shaw, now. Those animals can’t kill.”

“Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long
as we believed in them they could have
frightened us to death, forced us, maybe,
to commit suicide. If that isn’t being
dangerous — ”

The Irishman whistled.

“But, we’ve got to move, Irish. We’ve
got twenty minutes of oxygen. In that time
we’ve got to trace those monsters to their
source, Gunther’s Base, fight our way in,
and get fresh oxy-cannisters.” Click at-
tached his camera to his mid-belt. “Gun-
ther probably thinks we’re dead by now.
Everyone else’s been fooled by his play-
mates; they never had a chance to disbe-
lieT^e them.”

“If it hadn’t been for you taking them
pictures. Click — ”

“Coupled with your damned stubborn
attitude about the accident — ” Click stopped
and felt his insides turning to water. He
shook his head and felt a film slip down
over his eyes. He spread his legs out to
steady himself, and swayed. “I — I don’t
think my oxygen is as full as yours. This
excitement had me double-breathing and
I feel sick.

Mamagan’s homely face grimaced in
sympathy. “Hold tight, Click. The guy
that invented these fish-bowls didn’t pro-
vide for a sick stomach.”

“Hold tight, hell, let’s move. We’ve got
to find where those animals came from!
And the only way to do that is to get the
animals to come back!”

“Come back ? How ?”

“They’re waiting, just outside the aura
of our thoughts, and if we believe in them
again, they’ll return.”

Marnagan didn’t like it. “Won’t — won’t
they kill us — ^if they come — if we believe
ill ’em?”

Hathaway shook a head that was tons
heavy and weary. “Not if we believe in
them to a certain point. Psychologically
they can both be seen and felt. We only

STORIES

want to see them coming at us again.”
“Do we, now ?”

“With twenty minutes left, maybe
Jess — ”

“All right. Click, let’s bring ’em back.
How do we do it?”

Hathaway fought against the mist in
his eyes. “Just think' — I will see the mon-
sters again. I will see them again and I
will not feel them. Think it over and
over.”

Marnagan’s hulk stirred uneasily. “And
— what if I forget to remember all that?
What if I get excited. . . ?”

Hathaway didn’t answer. But his eyes
told the story by just looking at Irish.

Marnagan cursed. “All right, lad. Let’s
have at it!”

The monsters returned.

A SOUNDLESS deluge of them, pour-
ing over the rubbled horizon, swarm-
ing in malevolent anticipation about the
two men.

“This way, Irish. They come from this
way! There’s a focal point, a sending sta-
tion for these telepathic brutes. Come on !”

Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide
of color, mouths, contorted faces, silvery
fat bodies misting as he plowed through
them.

Marnagan was making good progress
ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped and
raised his gun and made quick moves with
it. “Click ! This one here ! It’s real !”
He fell back and something struck him
down. His immense frame slammed
against rock, noiselessly.

Hathaway darted forward, flung his
body over Mamagan’s, covered the helmet
glass with his hands, shouting:

“Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It’s
not real — don’t let it force into your mind !
It’s not real, I tell you 1”

“Click — ” Marnagan’s face was a bitter,
tortured movement behind glass. “Click — ”
He was fighting hard. “I — I — sure now.
Sure — ” He smiled. “It — it’s only a shanty
fake!”

“Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.”
Marnagan’s thick lips opened. “It’s only
a fake,” he said. “And then, irritated, “Get
the hell off me, Hatliaway. Let me up to
my feet !”

Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in
his helmet smelled stale, and little bubbles

THE MONSTER MAKER

danced in his eyes. “Irish, you forget the
monsters. Let me handle them, I know
how. They might fool you again, you
might forget.”

Marnagan showed his teeth. “Gah ! Let
a flea have all the fun ? And besides. Click,
I like to look at them. They’re pretty.”

The outpour of animals came from a low
lying mound a mile farther on. Evidently
the telepathic source lay there. They ap-
proached it warily.

“We’ll be taking our chances on guard,”
hissed Irish. “I’ll go ahead, draw their at-
tention, maybe get captured. Then, you
show up with your gun. . . .”

“I haven’t got one.”

“We’ll chance it, then. You stick here
until I see what’s ahead. They probably
got scanners out. Let them see me — ”

And before Hathaway could object, Mar-
nagan walked off. He walked about five
hundred yards, bent down, applied his
fingers to something, heaved up, and there
was a door opening in the rock.

His voice came back across the distance,
into Click’s earphones. “A door, an air-
lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside !”

Then, Marnagan dropped into the tun-
nel, disappearing. Click heard the thud
of his feet hitting the metal flooring.

Click sucked in his breath, hard and
fast.

“All right, put ’em .up!” a new harsh
voice cried over a different radio. One of
Gunther’s guards.

Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan
bellowed.

The strange harsh voice said, “That’s
better. Don’t try and pick that gun up
now. Oh, so it’s you. I thought Gunther
had finished you off. How’d you get past
the animals?”

Click started running. He switched off
his sending audio, kept his receiving on.
Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click
gasped. Things were getting dark. Had to
have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept
running and listening to Marnagan’s lying
voice :

“I tied them pink elephants of Gun-
ther’s in neat alphabetical bundles and
stacked them up to dry, ya louse !” Marna-
gan said. “But, damn you, they killed my
partner before he had a chance!”

The guard laughed.

45

T he air-lock door was still wide open
when Click reached it, his head swim-
ming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-
fire and hell-rockets. He let himself down
in, quiet and soft. He didn’t have a
weapon. He didn’t have a weapon. Oh,
damn, damn!

A tunnel curved, ending in light, and
two men silhouetted in that yellow glare.
Marnagan, backed against a wall, his hel-
met cracked, air hissing slowly out of it,
his face turning blue. And the guard, a
proton gun extended stiffly before him,
also in a vac-suit. The guard had his
profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting :
“I think I’ll let you stand right there and
die,” he said quietly. “That what Gun-
ther wanted, anway. A nice sordid death.”

Hathaway took three strides, his hands
out in front of him.

“Don’t move!” he snapped. “I’ve got
a weapon stronger than yours. One twitch
and I’ll blast you and the whole damned
wall out from behind you! Freeze!”

The guard whirled. He widened his
sharp eyes, and reluctantly, dropped his
gun to the floor.

“Get his gun, Irish.”

Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled
clumsily forward.

Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun,
smirked at the guard. “Thanks for posing,”
he said. “That shot will go down in film
history for candid acting.”

“What!”

“Ah: ah! Keep your place. I’ve got a
real gun now. Where’s the door leading
into the Base?”

The guard moved his head sullenly over
his left shoulder.

Click was afraid he would show his
weak dizziness. He needed air. “Okay.
Drag Marnagan with you, open the door
and we’ll have air. Double time ! Double !”

Ten minutes later, Marnagan and
Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen on their
backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and
helmet, trussed the guard, hid him in a
huge trash receptacle. “Where he be-
longs,” observed Irish tersely.

They found themselves in a complete
inner world ; an asteroid nothing more than
a honey-comb fortress sliding through the
void unchallenged. Perfect front for a
raider who had little equipment and was
short-handed of men. Gunther simply

46 PLANET

waited for specific cargo ships to rocket by,
pulled them or knocked them down and
swarmed over them for cargo. The animals
served simply to insure against suspicion
and the swarms of tourists that filled the
void these days. Staall fry weren’t wanted.
They were scared off.

The telepathic sending station for the
animals was a great bank of intricate,
glittering machine, through which strips
of colored film with images slid into slots
and machine mouths that translated them
into thought-emanations. A damned neat
piece of genius.

“So here we are, still not much better
off than we were,” growled Irish. “We
haven’t a ship or a space-radio, and more
guards’ll turn up any moment. You think
we could refocus this doohingey, project
the monsters inside the asteroid to fool
the pirates themselves ?”

“What good would that do?” Hathaway
gnawed his lip. “They wouldn’t fool the
engineers who created them, you nut.”

Mamagan exhaled disgustedly. “Ah, if
only the U. S. Cavalry would come riding
over the hill — ”

<<TRISH!” Hathaway snapped that, his

A face lighting up. “Irish. The U. S.
Cavalry it is!” His eyes darted over the
machines. “Here. Help me. We’ll stage
everything on the most colossal raid of
the century.”

Marnagan winced. “You breathing oxy-
gen or whiskey?”

“There’s only one stipulation I make,
Irish. I want a complete picture of Marna-
gan capturing Raider’s Base. I want a
picture of Gunther’s face w'hen you do it.
Snap it, now, we’ve got rush work to do.
How good an actor are you ?”

“That’s a silly question.”

“You only have to do three things. Walk
with your gun out in front of you, firing.
That’s number one. Number two is to
clutch at your heart and fall down dead.
Number three is to clutch at your side,
fall down and twitch on the ground. Is
that clear?”

“Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula. . . .”

An hour later Hathaway trudged
down a passageway that led out into
a sort of city street inside the asteroid.
There were about six streets, lined with
cube houses in yellow metal, ending near

STORIES

Hathaway in a wide, green-lawned Plaza.

Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his
camera in one hand, walked across the
Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading
for a building that was pretentious enough
to be Gunther’s quarters.

He got halfway there when he felt a
gun in his back.

He didn’t resist. They took him straight
ahead to his destination and pushed him
into a room where Gunther sat.

Hathaway looked at him. “So you’re
Gunther?” he said, calmly. The pirate was
incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood
out over sunken, questioningly dark eyes,
and his scrawny body was lost in folds of
metal-link cloth. He glanced up from a
paper-file, surprised. Before he could
speak, Hathaway said :

“Everything’s over with, Mr. Gunther.
The Patrol is in the city now and we’re
capturing your Base. Don’t try to fight.
We’ve a thousand men against your eighty-
five.”

Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway,
not moving. His thin hands twitched in
his lap. “You are bluffing,” he said, finally,
with a firm directness. “A ship hasn’t
landed here for an hour. Your ship was
the last. Two people were on it. The last
I saw of them they were being pursued
to the death by the Beasts. One of you
escaped, it seemed.”

“Both. The other guy went after the
Patrol.”

"Impossible !”

“I can’t respect your opinion, Mr. Gun-
ther.”

A shouting rose from the Plaza. About
fifty of Gunther’s men, lounging on carved
benches during their time-off, stirred to
their feet and started yelling. Gunther
turned slowly to the huge window in one
side of his office. He stared, hard.

The Patrol was coming!

Across the Plaza, marching quietly and
decisively, came the Patrol. Five hundred
Patrolmen in one long, incredible line,
carrying paralysis guns with them in their
tight hands.

Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a
shrill dagger in the air. “Get out there, you
men! Throw them back! We’re outmun-
bered !”

Guns flared. But the Patrol came on.
Gunther’s men didn’t run, Hathaway had

THE MONSTER MAtiER 47

to credit them on that. They took it, stand-
ing.

Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What
a sweet, sweet shot this was. His camera
whirred, clicked and whirred again. No-
body stopped him from filming it. Every-
thing was too wild, hot and angry. Gun-
ther was throwing a fit, still seated at his
desk, unable to move because of his fra-
gile, bony legs and their atrophied state.

Some of the Patrol were killed. Hath-
away chuckled again as he saw three of
the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts,
crumple, lie on the ground and twitch.
God, what photography !

Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol
from his linked corselet. He fired wildly
until Hathaway hit him over the head with
a paper weight. Then Hathaway took a
picture of Gunther slumped at his desk,
the chaos taking place immediately outside
his window.

The pirates broke and fled, those that
were left. A mere handful. And out of
the chaos came Marnagan’s voice, “Here !”

O NE of the Patrolmen stopped firing,
and ran toward Click and the Build-
ing. He got inside. “Did you see them
run. Click boy? What an idea. How did
we do?”

“Fine, Irish. Fine!”

“So here’s Gunther, the spalpeen! Gun-
ther, the little dried up pirate, eh ?” Marna-
gan whacked Hathaway on the back. “I’ll
have to hand it to you, this is the best plan
o’ battle ever laid out. And proud I was
to fight with such splendid men as these — ’’
He gestured toward the Plaza.

Click laughed with him. “You should
be proud. Five hundred Patrolmen with
hair like red banners flying, with thick
Irish brogues and broad shoulders and
freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall
as your stories !”

Mamagan roared. “I always said, I
said — if ever there could be an army of
Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn
uneeverse 1 Did you photograph it.
Click?”

“I did.” Hathaway tapped his camera
happily.

“Ah, then, won’t that be a scoop for you,
boy? Money from the Patrol so they can
use the film as instruction in Classes and

money from Cosmic Films for the news-
reel headlines! And what a scene, and
what acting! Five hundred duplicates of
Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathically
into the minds of the pirates, walking across
a Plaza, capturing the whole she-bang!
How did you like my death-scenes?”

“You’re a ham. And anyway^ — five hun-
dred duplicates, nothing!” said Click. He
ripped the film-spool from the camera,
spread it in the air to develop, inserted it
in the micro-viewer. “Have a look — ”

Marnagan looked. “Ah, now. Ah, now,”
he said over and over. “There’s the Plaza,
and there’s Gunther’s men fighting and
then they’re turning and running. And
what are they running from? One man!
Me. Irish Marnagan! Walking all by
myself across the lawn, paralyzing them.
One against a hundred, and the cowards
running from me!

“Sure, Click, this is better than I
thought. I forgot that the film wouldn’t
register telepathic emanations, them other
Marnagans. It makes it look like I’m a
mighty brave man, does it not? It does.
Ah, look — look at me, Hathaway, I’m en-
joying every minute of it, I am.”

H athaway swatted him on his
back-side. “Look here, you egocen-
tric son of Erin, there’s more work to be
done. More pirates to be captured. The
Patrol is still marching around and some-
one might be suspicious if they looked too
close and saw all that red hair.”

“All right. Click, we’ll clean up the rest
of them now. We’re a combination, we
two, we are. I take it all back about your
pictures. Click, if you hadn’t thought of
taking pictures of me and inserting it into
those telepath machines we’d be dead ducks
now. Well — ^here I go. . . .”

Hathaway stopped him. “Hold it. Until
I load my camera again.”

Irish grinned. “Hurry it up. Here come
three guards. They’re unarmed. I think
I’ll handle them with me fists for a change.
The gentle art of uppercuts. Are you
ready, Hathaway?”

“Ready.”

Mamagan lifted his big ham-fists.

The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled,
to himself.

What a sweet fade-out this was !

Saboteur of Space

By ROBERT ABERNATHY

Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would hrlng life to
a dying planet. Only two men stood In its way, one a cowardly rat,
the other a murderous martyr; hoth pawns in a cosmic game where
death moved his chessmen of fate— and even the winner would lose.

IlluUrated by Elias

48

R YD RANDL stood, slouching a lit-
tle, in the darkened footway, and
watched the sky over Dynamopolis
come alive with searchlights. The shut-
tered glow of Burshis’ Stumble Inn was
only a few yards off to his right, but even
that lodestone failed before the novel in-
terest of a ship about to ground in the one-
time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.

Now he made out the flicker of the brak-
ing drive a mile or so overhead, and pres-
ently soft motor thunder came down to

blanket the almost lightless city with
sound. A beam swayed through the throb-
bing darkness, caught the descending ship
and held it, a small gleaming minnow slip-
ping through the dark heavens. A faint
glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the space-
port lay above the city, as a runway lighted
up — draining the last reserves of the city’s
stored power, but draining them gladly
now that, in those autumn days of the
historic year 819, relief was in sight.

Ryd shrugged limply ; the play was

4 — Planet — Spring

49

50 PLANET

meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle
down the inviting ramp into the glowing
interior of Burshis’ dive.

The place was crowded with men and
smoke. Perhaps half the former were
asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for
the few places like Burshis’ which were
still open under the power shortage, many
would have frozen, these in the chilly
nights at fourteen thousand feet. For
Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world,
now as in the old days when it had been
built to be the power center of North
America.

The rocket blasts crescendoed and died
up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself
with difficulty into the group along the bar.
If anyone recognized him, they showed it
only by looking fixedly at something else.
Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile
and nodded with surprising friendliness at
Ryd’s pinched, old-young face.

Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis
finished serving another customer and
maneuvered down the stained chrome-
and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.

“Say, Burshis,” he started nervously, as
the bulky man halted with his back to him.
But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking
his head so that his jowls quivered.

“No loans,” he said flatly. “But just
one on the house, Ryd.”

The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd’s
hand. Qutching it convulsively, he made
his eyes narrow and said suspiciously,
“What you setting ’em up for, Burshis?
It’s the first time since — ”

Burshis’ smile stayed put. He said ar-
fably, “Didn’t you hear that ship that just
came down on the Mesa? That was the
ship from Mars — the escort they were
sending with the power cylinder. The
power’s coming in again.” He turned to
greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over
his shoulder: “You know what that means,
Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs
for all the bums in this town — even for
you.”

He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily.
A warming gulp seemed to clear his head.
Jobs. So they thought they could put that
over on him again, huh? Well, he’d show
them. He was smart ; he was a damn good
helio man — ^no, that had been ten years
ago. But now he was out of the habit of
working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl.

STORIES

They gave him one once and then took it
away. He drank still more deeply.

The man on Ryd’s immediate right
leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his
arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly:
“So you’re Ryd Randl.”

R yd had a bad moment before he
saw that the face wasn’t that of any
plain-clothes man he knew. For that mat-
ter, it didn’t belong to anybody he had ever
known — an odd, big-boned face, strikingly
ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too
large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the
thin mouth below it. An expensive trans-
parent hat slanted over the face, and from
its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that
were alert and almost frighteningly black.
Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray
cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like
Burshis’.

“Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I’d like
to talk to you.”

“What’s the idea?” demanded Ryd, his
small store of natural courage floated to
the top by alcohol.

The other seemed to realize that he was
getting ahead of himself. He leaned back
slightly, drew a deep breath, and said
slowly and distinctly. “Would you care
to make some money, my friend?”

“Huhf Why, yeh — I guess so — ”

“Then come with me.” The hand still
on his arm was insistent. In his daze,
Ryd let himself be drawn away from the
bar into the sluggish crowd; then he sud-
denly remembered his unfinished drink,
and made frantic gestures. Deliberately
misunderstanding, the tall stranger fum-
bled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-
top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-
and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly
pouring out its endlessly changing music,
through the swinging doors into the dark.

Outside, between lightless buildings, the
still cold closed in on them. They kept
walking — so fast that Ryd began to lose his
breath, long-accustomed though his lungs
were to the high, thin air.

“So you’re Ryd Randl,” repeated the
stranger after a moment’s silence. “I
might have known you. But I’d almost
given up finding you tonight.”

Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stum-
bled. “Look,” he gasped. “If you’re a
cop, say so!”

SABOTEVR

The other laughed shortly. “No. I’m
just a man about to offer you a chance.
For a come-back, Ryd — a chance to live
again. . . . My name — you can call me
Mury.”

Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed
increasingly ominous about the tall, spare
man at his side. He wished himself back
in Burshis’ with his first free drink in a
month. The thought of it brought tears to
his eyes.

“How long have you been out of a job,
Ryd?”

“Nine . . . ten years. Say, what’s it
to you?”

“And why, Ryd?”

“Why . . . ? Look, mister, I was a helio
operator.” He hunched his narrow shoul-
ders and spread his hands in an habitual
gesture of defeat. “Damn good one, too —
I was a foreman ten years ago. But I
don’t have the physique for Mars — I
might just have made it then, but I thought
the plant was going to open again and — ”

And that was it. The almost airless
Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays,
is so favorable for the use of the helio-
dynamic engine. And after the middle of
the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars
its full economic independence — and domi-
nation. For power is — power; and there
is the Restriction Act to keep men on
Earth even if more than two in ten could
live healthily on the outer world.

“Ten years ago,” Mury nodded as if
satisfied. “That must have been the Power
Company of North America — the main
plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut
down in December, 809. They were the
last to close down outside the military
bases in the Kun Lun.”

Ryd was pacing beside him now. He
felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this
strange man; for too long he had met no
sympathy and all too few men who talked
his language. He burst out : “They
wouldn’t take me, damn them! Said my
record wasn’t good enough for them. That
is, I didn’t have a drag with any of the
Poligerents.”

“I know all about your record,” said
Mury softly.

Ryd’s suspicions came back abruptly,
and he reverted to his old kicked-dog man-
ner. “How do you know ? And what’s it
to you?”

OF SPACE 51

A ll at once, Mury came to a stop,
and swung around to face him
squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were
on an overpass, not far from where the
vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the
Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled
over a square mile of city. A haJf-smile
twisted Mury’s thin lips.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Ryd — ^you
mean nothing at all to me as an individual.
But you’re one of a vast mass of men for
whom I am working — ^the billions caught
in the net of a corrupt government and
sold as an economic prey to the ruthless
masters of Mars. This, after they’ve
borne all the hardships of a year of em-
bargo, have offered their hands willingly
to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only
to be refused by the weak leaders who can
neither defy the enemy nor capitulate
frankly to him.”

Ryd was dazed. His mind had never
been constructed to cope with such ideas
and the past few years had not improved
its capabilities. “Are you talking about
the power cylinder?” he demanded blurrily.

Mury cast a glance toward the Milky
Way as if to descry the Martian cargo
projectile somewhere up among its count-
less lights. He said simply, “Yes.”

“I don’t get it,” mumbled Ryd, frown-
ing. He found words that he had heard
somewhere a day or so before, in some bar
or flophouse; “The power cylinder is go-
ing to be the salvation of Earth. It’s a
shot in the arm — no, tight in the heart of
Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It
will turn the wheels and light the cities
and—”

“To hell with that !” snapped Mury, sud-
denly savage. His hands came up slightly,
the fingers flexing; then dropped back to
his sides. “Don’t you know you’re re-
peating damnable lies ?

Ryd could only stare, cringing and be-
wildered. Mury went on with a passion
shocking after his smooth calm :

“The power shell is aid, yes — but with
what a price ! It’s the thirty pieces of sil-
ver for which the venal fools who rule our
nations have sold the whole planet to Mars.
Because they lack the courage and vision
to retool Earth’s plants and factories for
the inescapable conflict, they’re selling us
out — making Earth, the first home of man.

52 PLANET

a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know
what Earth is to the great Martian land-
owners? Do you?” He paused out of
breath; then finished venomously, “Earth
is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped,
cheaper than robots — cheap as slaves!”

“What about it?” gulped Ryd, drawing
away from the fanatic, “What you want
me to do about it?”

Mury took a deep breath and straight-
ened his shoulders. His face was once
more bleakly impassive; only the mouth
was an ugly line. “We’re going to do
something about it, you and I. Tonight.
Now.”

Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly ter-
rified. He got out chokingly, “What’s that
mean ?”

“The power shell — isn’t coming in as
planned.”

“You can’t do that.”

‘‘We can,” said Mury with a heavy ac-
cent on the first word. “And there are
fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd.
Are you with us?”

Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd’s
mind. And he knew one thing certainly —
if he refused now to accompany Mury, he
would be killed, by this man or another of
his kind. For the secret power known
only as We never took chances. Whis-
pered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,
desperate upshot of the times in its prin-
ciples of dynamitism, war, and panclasm —
that was We.

The question hung in the air for a long
moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said,
“Sure.” A moment later it struck him
that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious ;
he added quickly, “I got nothing to lose,
see?” It was, he realized, the cold truth.

“You won’t lose,” said Mury. He
seemed to relax. But tlie menace with
which he had clothed himself clung, as he
turned back on the way they had come.

Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their
worn shoes moving without his volition.
He was frightened. Out of his very fright
came a longing to placate Mury, assure
him that he, Ryd, was on the same side
whatever happened. . . .

After some steps he stole a sidelong
glance at his tall companion, and whined,
“Where . . . where we going now?”

Mury paused in his long stride, removed
a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat

STORIES

that wrapped him as in somber thoughts.
Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known
he would — ^toward where a pale man-made
dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.

II

it/^NE BLOW for freedom!” said

V-/ Mury with caught breath. His
voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since
the sodden thump of the blow that had
killed the guard.

The body lay between them, face down
on the graveled way in the inky moon-
shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched
away two hundred yards to drop sharply
into the night; on the other was the un-
lighted mass of the long, continuous, low
buildings that housed now unused fuel
pumps and servicing equipment. Looking
down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little
stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew
that he was in it now. He was caught in
the machinery.

Mury hefted the length of steel in his
hand once more, as if testing the weight
that had crushed a man’s skull so easily.
Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it
flying into the dried weeds which had over-
grown the aero field on the mesa’s rim
during the summer months after State or-
der had grounded all fliers in America.

“All right, Ryd,” he said coolly. “Trade
clothes with this fellow. I’ve brought you
this far — you’re taking me the rest of the
way.”

The rest of the way.

Ryd was still panting, and his side was
paining from the strenuous exertion of
the long climb up the side of the mountain,
far from the guarded highway. His fin-
gers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin
air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the
zippers of the dead guard’s uniform. The
belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly
comforting as he clumsily buckled it about
his hips. He knew enough of weapons to
recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer,
but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly.
He let his hand linger on its butt; then
strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist,
and he looked up with a start into the sar-
donic black eyes of the Panclast.

“No use now for firearms,” said Mury.
“All the guns we could carry wouldn’t help
us if we were caught out there. That gun

SABOTEVR

is just a stage property for the little play
we’re going to give in about three minutes
— when you’ll act a guardsman escorting
me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard
the towship Shahracad.”

For a moment Ryd felt relief — ^he had
hazily imagined that Mury’s hatred of
Mars and all things Martian might have
led him to try to sabotage the Martian
warship which lay somewhere on the run-
ways beyond the long, low buildings, and
which would be closely guarded. But the
towship would also be guarded ... he
shivered in the cold, dry night air.

Mury had melted into the shadow a few
yards away. There was a light scraping,
then a green flame sputtered, briefly light-
ing up his hands and face, and narrowing
at once to a thin, singing needle of light.
He had turned a pocket electron torch
against the lock-mechanism of a small, dis-
used metal door.

Ryd watched in painful suspense. There
was no sound in his ears save for the hard,
dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the
steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —
but he remembered the power that knew
how to punish better than the law, and
stood still, shivering.

The lock gave way and the door slipped
aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd’s
heart stopped, backfired, and started again,
raggedly. The same automatic mecha-
nism that had turned the lights on had
started the air-fresher, which picked up
speed with a soft whine, sweeping out
the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned
to Ryd to follow him in.

I T WAS still musty in the narrow pas-
sage, between the closely-pressing walls,
beneath the great tubes and cable sheath-
ings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A
stairway spiraled up on the right to the
control cupola somewhere overhead; even
in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust
lay on every step. Up there were the
meters and switches of the disused ter-
minal facilities of the spaceport; beyond
the metal door marked CAUTION, just
beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway
down which the ships of space had glided
to be serviced, refueled, and launched into
the sky once more by now dormant ma-
chines.

“Wait,” said Mury succinctly; he van-

OF SPACE 53

ished up the spiral stair, his long legs
taking two steps at a time. After an ach-
ing minute’s silence, he was back. All
was clear as seen from the turret-windows
overhead.

They emerged in shadow, hugging the
wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the
right the megalith of the Communications
Tower, crowned with many lights where
the signal-men sat godlike in its summit.
Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light
out over the mesa, where the mile-long
runways — no longer polished mirror-like as
in the days of Dynamopolis’ glory — i
stretched away into the darkness of the
table land. A handful of odd ships — mere
remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa
port had berthed — huddled under the sole-
noid wickets, as if driven together by the
chill of the thin, knife-like wind thaw blew
across the mesa.

As the two paced slowly across the run-
ways, Ryd had a sense of protective iso-
lation in the vast impersonality of the
spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desola-
tion of metal slabs and flat-roofed build-
ings, dominated by the one great tower,
total insignificance must mean safety for
them.

And indeed no guard challenged them.
There were armed men watching for all
intruders out on the desert beyond the
runways, but once inside, Ryd’s borrowed
blue seemed to serve as passport enough.
Nonetheless, the passport’s knees were
shaking when they stood at last, incon-
spicuous still, at the shadowed base of the
Communications Tower.

Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries,
huddled close together in the midst of
these Cyclopean man-made things that
dwarfed their policies, their principles and
ambitions, stood talking rather nervously
with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in
the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-
clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a
distance — watched boredly enough.

And out on the steel-stripped tarmac,
under the solenoid of Number Two Run-
way, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur
with its massive magnets — ^the Shahrasad,
panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds
of steam. She was plainly ready to go
into space. The bottom dropped out of
Ryd’s stomach before he realized that a
warning at least must be sounded before

54 PLANET

the ship could lift. But that might come
any moment now.

‘ Relax,” said Mury in a low voice.
“Nothing’s gone wrong. We'll be aboard
the Shahrazad when she lifts.” For a
moment his black eyes shifted, hardening,
toward Runway Four, The Martian war-
ship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spite-
ful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with
blind gunvalves, row on row, along its
sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not
yet been tugged onto the turntable ; it
could not be leaving again very soon,
though Earth weight was undoubtedly in-
commoding its crew. About it a few fig-
ures stood that were stiffly erect and im-
mobile, as tall as tall men. From head to
toe they were scarlet.

“Robots!” gasped Ryd, clutching his
companion’s arm convulsively. “Martian
soldier robots!”

“They’re unarmed, harmless. They
aren’t your police with built-in weapons.
Only the humans are dangerous. But
we’ve got to move. For God’s sake, take
it easy.”

Ryd licked dry lips, “Are we going —
out into space?”

“Where else?” said Mury.

T he official-looking individual in the
expensive topcoat and sport hat had
reached the starboard airlock of the tow-
ship before anyone thought to question
his authorization, escorted as he was by a
blue-uniformed guardsman. When an-
other sentry, pacing between runways a
hundred yards from the squat space ves-
sel, paused to wonder, it was — as it came
about — just a little too late.

The guard turned and swung briskly off
to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand
crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was
growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rap-
idly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in
sprinting across the last of the two inter-
vening runways, between the solenoid wick-
ets. Those metal arches, crowding one
on the other in perspective, formed a tun-
nel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad’ s
airlocks from more distant view ; the gang
of notables attracted by the occasion was
already being shepherded back to safety
by the Communications guards, whose at-
tention was thus well taken up.

The slight man in guardsman’s blue

STORIES

glanced over his shoulder and vanished
abruptly into the circular lock. His com-
panion wheeled on the topmost step, look-
ing down with some irritation on his un-
handsome face, but with no apparent doubt
of his command of the situation.

“Yes?” he inquired frostily.

“What goes on here?” snapped the
guard, frowning at the tall figure silhou-
etted against the glow in the airlock. “The
crew’s signaled all aboard and the ship lifts
in two minutes. You ought to be — ”

“I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the
City of Dynamopolis,” interrupted the tall
man with asperity. “The City is nat-
urally interested in the delivery of the
power which will revivify our industries.”
He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to
the next lower step of the gangway. “I
suppose you’ll want to re-check my creden-
tials?”

The guard was somewhat confused ; a
Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy,
was a force to be reckoned with. But he
contrived to nod with an appearance of
brusqueness.

Fully expecting official papers, signed
and garnished with all the pompous seals
of a chartered metropolis, the guard was
dazed to receive instead a terrific left-
handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and
as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing
for his gun, to find that gun no longer
bolstered but in the hand of the self-
styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed
owner.

“I think,” Mury said quietly, flexing
his left wrist with care the while his right
held the gun steady, “that you’d better
come aboard with us.”

The guard was not more cowardly than
the run of politically-appointed civic
guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more
frightfully than the ancient electric chair.
He complied, grasping the railing with
both hands as he stumbled before Mury up
the gangway — for he was still very sick
indeed, wholly apart from his bewilder-
ment, which was enormous.

Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock,
flattened against the curved wall, white
and jittering. The inner door was shut,
an impenetrable countersunk mirror of
metal.

“Cover him, Ryd,” ordered Mury flatly.
In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy

SABOTEUR

flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was
dangerously tremulous on the firing lever.
He moistened his lips to voice his fears;
but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw
the three-way switch on the side panel,
the switch that should have controlled the
inner lock.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, God. We’re caught. We’re
trapped!’’ The outer gangway had slid
up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an im-
penetrable crypt of niosteel.

M ury smiled with supernal calm.

“We won’t be here long,” he said.
Then, to quiet Ryd’s fears, he went on:
“The central control panel and the three
local switches inside, between, and outside
the locks are on the circuit in that order.
Unless the locks were closed from the
switch just beyond the inner lock, that
lock will open when the central control
panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.”

Almost as he paused and drew breath, a
light sprang out over the switch he had
closed and the inner lock swung silently
free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling
relief ; but Mury’s voice lashed out like a
whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.

“Keep him covered. Back out of the
lock.”

Ryd backed — the white, tense face of
the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze
— and, almost out of the lock, stumbled
over the metal pressure rings. And the
gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering
somewhere near his slithering feet, as he
started to fall.

He saw the guardsman hurl himself
forward ; then he was flung spinning, back
against the engine-room door. In a flash,
even as he struggled to keep on his feet,
he saw the man in the airlock coming up
from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his
right hand to reach its firing lever; he
saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the
master control switch outside.

The inner lock whooshed shut, barely
missing Ryd. At the same instant, the
flame gun lighted locks and passage with
one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored
spot appeared on the beveled metal of the
opposite lock a foot from Mury’s right
shoulder.

"You damned clumsy little fool — ” said
Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the

OF SPACE 55

air around the metal walls still buzzed and
snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and
w'ent up the control-room gangway in two
quick bounds. Even as he went the flame
gun thundered again in the starboard air-
lock.

Mury was just in time, for the pilot had
been about to flash “Ready” to the Com-
munications Toweit when the explosions
had given him pause. But the latter and
his two companions were neither ready nor
armed; clamped in their seats at the con-
trols, already marked, they were helpless
in an instant before the leveled menace
of the gun. And the imprisoned guards-
man, having wasted most of his charges,
was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.

“It’s been tried before,” said one of the
masked men. He had a blond, youthful
thatch and a smooth healthy face below
the mask, together with an astrogator’s
triangled stars which made him ex officio
the brains of the vessel. “Stealing a ship —
it can’t be done any more.”

“It’s been done again,” said Mury
grimly. “And you don’t know the half of
it. But — you will. I’ll need you. As for
your friends — ” Tlie gun muzzle shifted
slightly to indicate the pilot and the engi-
neer. “Out of those clamps. You’re
going to ride this out in the portside air-
lock.”

He had to repeat the command, in tones
that snapped with menace, before they
started with fumbling, rebellious hands to
strip their armor from themselves. The
burly engineer was muttering phrases of
obscene fervor ; the weedy young pilot
was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sit-
ting still masked and apparently unmoved,
demanded :

“What do you think you're trying to
do?”

“What do you think?” demanded Mury
in return. “I’m taking the ship into space.
On schedule and on course — to meet the
power shell.” The flame gun moved with
a jerk. “And as for you — what’s your
name ?”

“Yet Arliess.”

“You want to make the trip alive, don’t
you, Yet Arliess?”

The young astrogator stared at him and
at the gun through masking goggles ; then
he sank into his seat with a slow shudder.
“Why, yes,” he said as if in wonder, *T do.”

56 PLANET

111

S HAHRAZAD drove steadily forward
into deep space, vibrating slightly to
the tremendous thrust of her powerful en-
gines. The small, cramped cabin was
stiflingly hot to the three armored men
who sat before its banked dials, watching
their steady needles.

Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing
into his eyes and consciousness draining
from his head, as the space ship had pitched
out into emptiness over the end of the
runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in
the maindrive. Pressure greater than any-
thing he had ever felt had crushed him;
his voice had been snatched from his lips
by those terrible forces and lost beneath
the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes.
Up and up, while the acceleration climbed
to seven gravities — and Ryd had lost every
sensation, not to regain them until Earth
was dropping away under the towship’s
keel.

A single gravity held them back and
down in the tilted seats, and the control
panels seemed to curve half above them,
their banks of lights confused with the
stars coldly through the great nose win-
dow. In the control room all sounds
impinged on a background made up of the
insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost su-
personic whine of the fast-spinning gyros-
copes somewhere behind them, the deep
continuous growl of the engines.

Mury’s voice broke through that steady
murmur, coming from Ryd’s right. “You
can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd,” he
said dryly. “That doesn’t mean you,” to
the young navigator, on his other hand as
he sat in the pilot’s seat with his pressure-
clamps thrown back and his gloved hands
free to caress the multiplex controls be-
fore him. Clipped to the sloping dash at
his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.

Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from
his padded clamps, and shook his head
groggily as he ran a hand through his
slightly thinning hair. He ventured shak-
ily, “Where are we?”

Mury smiled slightly. “Only our astro-
gator,” he indicated Arliess, still masked
and fettered, “can tell you that with pre-
cision. I understand only enough of as-
trogational practice to make sure that he
is holding to the course outlined on the

STORIES

log. For that matter ... he is an intel-
ligent young man and if he were not blinded
by notions of duty to an outworn system
. . . We are now somewhere near the orbit
of the Moon. Isn’t that right, Arliess?”

The other did not seem to hear; he sat
staring blindly before him tlirough his
goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where
cryptic lights burned, some moving like
glowing paramecia along fine-traced lumi-
nous tracks.

Mury too sat silent and immobile for a
minute or more. Then, abruptly, he in-
clined his universal chair far to the right,
and his long frame seemed to tense oddly.
His finger stabbed out one of the sparks
of light.

“What’s that, Arliess?”

The astrogator broke his silence. “A
ship.”

“I know that well enough. What ship?”

“I supposed you had examined the log.
It would have told you that that’s the liner
Alborak, out of Aeropolis with a diplo-
matic mission for Mars.”

Mury shook his head regretfully. “That
won’t wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose
her off course, no liner aspace ever car-
ried a tenth of that drive.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” said Arliess. But his voice was
raw and unsteady.

“I’m talking about this. That ship is
a warship, and it’s looking for us — will
intercept us inside of twenty minutes at
the most !”

A rliess turned his head at last,
slowly, as if the movement were pain-
ful. His dispassionate goggles regarded
the telltale needles that had come quiver-
ingly alive on the radiodetector box between
them, bluntly giving the lie to the auto-
matic chart. “You know more than I
supposed,” he said, and laughed unpleas-
antly. “But it w'on’t do you any good
now. We’re to be inspected in space — a
surprise of which we weren’t informed
until a few minutes before you came sneak-
ing into the ship.”

“That’s too bad,” said Mury. He sounded
as if he thought it was too bad. As he
spoke, he leaned sidewise, to the left this
time, and closed a switch, lighting a dark-
ened panel on the board ; his long fore-
finger selected and pressed two studs. “T oo

SABOTEUR

bad," he repeated, and picked up the flame
pistol. Young Arliess exploded in another
furious surge against the binding clamps,
clawing with clumsy gloved hands for the
release ; then he quieted, and stared at the
small black bore trained on him.

He was trembling a little witli fury.
“You danrned louse. Why don’t you
make it a clean job by giving it to me,
now ?”

“I’ll need you, now if not before,’’ said
the Panclast softly. “Your friends would
have stayed alive if that warship hadn’t
showed its nose. You must understand
that. I was forced into counter-measures.”

Then Ryd, squirming sidewise in his
seat, understood. Those studs had con-
trolled the outer airlocks. And now the
men who had been in those locks, the
young guardsman and the Shahrazad’s pi-
lot and engineer — ^were no longer there.

“You — need met” Arliess was briefly
incredulous. “Oh — I get it. There have
to be three in the crew.” Then he sprang
like a tiger.

But the moment in which he had thumbed
the release and wrenched free of the
padded clamps had been too long. Ryd
flinched away — but there was no roar, no
flame stabbed blue. They grappled an
instant, swaying on the tilted floor — and
then the pistol, reversed in Mury’s hand,
chopped down on Arliess’ temple, a glanc-
ing blow, but fiercely struck.

The astrogator let go, staggering; and
the gun swung up again and felled him.

Mury let the pistol drop into his own
crew-seat, and, lugging Arliess under the
arms, got him into his seat with a grunting
heave. He said breathlessly, regretfully,
“It was the only way . . .” The mask
came off at once ; the shock-pale face that
emerged was even more youthful than Ryd
had thought. The red trickle across the
forehead was startling against its pallor.

Ryd sat staring — ^unshaken by the
thought of yet another murder, but with a
knot of fear tightening in his stomach as
he thought of the warship somewhere out
of their vision, questing nearer with every
racing second — while the motors throbbed,
the airvalves sang softly, and the gyro-
scopes whinned somewhere.

And Mury’s long, brown fingers ex-
plored rapidly through the stunned man’s
blond thatch; he nodded with satisfaction.

OF SPACE 57

and then with sure motions secured Arliess
in his place. Ryd, on peremptory gesture,
did for himself the same, with fingers that
were oddly numb and jointless.

Then Mury was back in the pilot’s chair.
For a moment he sat as if poised, staring
into starry space with knitted brows ; then
he reached far over, in front of the sag-
ging astrogator, and with a decisive flick
of the wrist switched on the ship’s mag-
nets to their full power.

“What’s that for?” stammered Ryd, be-
wildered and more than a little scared.
“Why—”

Mury made no answer. Instead, he
had fixed once more on the detector box,
watching it intently as the minutes crawled.
The movements by which he secured his
own anticlamps were automatonlike.

T wice the needles jumped briefly.

Mury did not stir. But when they
began to swing slowly over the scale, his
hands leaped at the control studs; in the
next instant Shahrazad leaped and shiv-
ered, and a powerful acceleration fought
to lever them out of their seats. The noise
was deafening; one thin layer of sound
proofing was between the cabin and the
one-inch tubes of the overdrive.

Ryd’s eyes rolled up in his head and
grew filmed; the control room for him a
blur of dizzy flame. He almost blacked
out again; he seemed to see the face of
the white Moon, leprously diseased, float
like <a runaway balloon past the curved
nose window and disappear below his
topsy-turvy field of vision ; but he couldn’t
be sure it wasn’t his own head spiraling
away from its moorings. And then it was
over and the ship bored steadily along her
new tangent through space.

But now she vibrated yet more deeply to
the great thrust of the afterdrive, and the
light blurred more and grew dim. Shah-
razad raced into darkness, and the needles
that told of a magnetic mass somewhere
not far ahead, cutting swiftly through her
far-flung field, swung steadily over.

Then bang! in one unreverberating ex-
plosion, and the ship bucked hard and the
blurred lights came down in a rain of
fiery pinwheels. The motor died with a
snap. Silence rang and Ryd’s stomach
boiled with weightlessness ; slowly his eyes
' could see again. Shahrazad held straight

58 PLANET

on her course toward some unknown tar-
get star; the gyroscopes still whined.

“Seven thousand feet a second,” came
Mury’s voice from nowhere. “That’s the
speed at which we overran the meteoroid.
It wouldn’t have been nice if it had come
through here; the armor before the con-
trol panel would have stopped it if it
didn’t strike higher . .

Ryd fell to shuddering. He mouthed
with difficulty, “My God, you don’t hit
meteors on purpose!”

“You damned well do,” said Mury
crisply, “if you have to.” His manner
brought a sort of frightened admiration
into Ryd’s dark, unsteady eyes. Mury
added, with apparent lack of connected-
ness, “Astrogators’ heads don’t just crack
themselves on switch handles.” The under-
drive, roaring alive as he pressed the bot-
tom stud on the control circle, caught
Ryd’s breath against his diaphragm and
left him none to answer with if he had
wished to.

She leveled out on course with short
jerky bursts from the various banks of
tubes. Mury was doing all his own course-
plotting now, and his teeth were sunk in
his lower lip as he frowned at the charts
and at the rows of figures that spun into
view on the calculator. He was still cor-
recting feverishly when the stars dimmed
and space throbbed like a tympanum.

A voice clanged through the strobo-
phones. “Shahrazad! Algot calling Shah-
rasad! Cut your drive to one vertical
gravity. We will parallel and send a boat
across. That is all.”

Mury’s right hand moved slightly on
the sloping ledge and closed the throttle.
The forward thrust again collapsed into
weightlessness, and the Shahrazad seemed
to hang motionless for a moment before
the underdrive took up the load. And
meanwhile the meters told their tale of the
swift onrush of the great battle cruiser
in whose forward sphere of exhaust gases
they already flew. Across the starry sky
ahead crept a vast belt of hazy light like
a zodiacal glow.

“The Algol,” said Mury musingly. A
stellar dreadnaught. They aren’t sparing
precautions . . .” Abruptly he dropped
his right hand from the dashboard, grasped
a sheathed wire that curved away be-
neath the radiodetector box, and detached

STORIES

it with a brisk jerk. The needles dropped
instantly to a uniform zero. The chain of
causation was complete.

S O THERE was no warning of the ap-
proach of the space-boat. It bumped
alongside and grappled to the towship’s
starboard airlock a couple of minutes later ;
Ryd stiffened, drew a long breath, and
held it as if he would hold it forever.
Mury, liand steady, depressed the studs
that opened the lock ... for the second
time since the ship had lifted.

The man who came aboard, from the
warship hanging somewhere out there
among the stars, was the very avatar of
the Fleet in that second decade of the ninth
century. Incarnate in space-blue and sil-
ver stars, with smoothly smiling face,
shaven with a more than military meticu-
lousness, that radiated power and the con-
fidence of power. Power flanked and
overshadowed his medium-tall figure, in
the shape of two armed robot marines.
The eyes of the Panclast masked their
smoldering lights as they met those be-
neath the winged officer’s cap; but the
latter, aristocratically bored, noticed little
or nothing.

“You appear to have had an accident.
Captain Yaher,” said the lieutenant with
unblinking calm. “We noticed from a
distance that your undershell was badly
scored as if by collision with some solid
body. Unfortunately . . . and remarkably.
Is any of your equipment out of order?”

Mury shrugged without effort, jerked a
gloved thumb at the dangling wire. The
lieutenant raised narrow eyebrows.
“Damaged before you lifted?”

“We were inspected thoroughly on the
runway. It must have happened during
initial acceleration.”

The other frowned, fine vertical lines
creasing his smooth forehead. “Odd.”

Mury smiled a thin, crooked smile. “You
military men don’t know what can happen
aboard a run-down towship. Anything,
literally. The merchant fleet isn’t at its
best since the embargo.”

“I know,” said the officer curtly. “Even
in the Fleet — ” He stopped short, and
his eyes, shifting, found a new subject
ready-made in the slumped figure of Ar-
liess. “Was this man seriously injured.
Captain ?”

SABOTEVR

“Just stunned, I think. He’s an astro-
gator, and astrogators are tough.’’

T he officer laughed perfunctorily.
He moved forward and made a brief,
distasteful examination of Arliess’ tousled
head, then stepped back, rubbing his fin-
gers together.

“There’s no fracture. But if he’s con-
cussed, he’s in no shape to stand heavy ac-
celeration.”

Mury said smoothly, “We’re not going
to be using any. We’re up to speed and
our orders are to handle that power cylin-
der like a soap bubble.”

The young lieutenant stroked his smooth
chin, standing with feet braced against the
tilt of the floor beneath which the rockets
rumbled steadily, holding him erect as if
under Earth gravity. The two men at the
control board watched him with stares
equilly unblinkingly but far different in sen-
timent. Mury’s was inscrutable; it might
have veiled anything. Ryd’s was all sick
fear and certainty that something would
betray them before the nerve-racking scene
was played out.

“I think,” said the blue-clad officer,
“that if it won’t incommode you too much
to hold this acceleration a bit longer — ”
“Not at all,” said Mury, and Ryd si-
lently but no less hysterically cursed his
facile confidence.

“. . . I’ll cross over again and send a
ship’s doctor to attend to your astrogator.
A shot in the arm should bring him
around.”

Mury nodded placidly. The officer
turned casually, spoke to the two blue-
chromiumed robots, who faced about
smartly ; then, snapping his fingers, their
master wheeled once more. “Just a mo-
ment. I almost forgot this. . . . Strangely
enough, one of my men stumbled over it
in your starboard lock.” He fumbled
inside his tunic a moment, displayed in
his hand a heavy .20 service flame gun.

A flat and terrible silence lay in the
control room. Then Mury broke it, as it
had to be broken quickly :

“We weren’t supposed to have any arms
aboard. I can’t say where that came from.”

“Can’t say, eh?” said the other mus-
ingly. Ryd, cold sweat on his forehead,
stared in horrid fascination, first at the
man and then at the fighter robots. He

OF SPACE 59

tensed himself to fight back, now, at the
last, like a cornered rat — he hardly knew
how or why.

With a shrug, the officer dropped the
weapon into his pocket. “Ah, well — so
many of these little mysteries remain just
that. We mustn’t hold up Terra’s power
supply.” He turned once more to go.
“I’ll have the medico here in a flicker.”

The trio passed out through the wris-
pering locks, out to the waiting spaceboat.
Ryd found that his mouth was parchment-
dry; he stared at the apparently unshaken
Mury, and drew a shuddering breath.

“I guess,” he said jerkily, “we fooled
them.”

Mury smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “We
fooled them this time.”

Then a thought jolted Ryd; he gasped,
“Listen! Did you think about — That bat-
tleship might have picked up those guys
you dropped out of the locks! They’ve got
us right here — we can’t get away — ^maybe
they’re just — ”

“Why would they?” Mury shrugged
again. “But that chance had to be taken.
Space is rather big, you know.”

IV

I T WAS NOT more than three minutes
later that young Arliess began to
twitch and mutter under the neuromuscu-
lar impact of a cc. of arterially - injected
vitalin. The Fleet doctor straightened
and returned his small, bright needle to
its velvet-lined case, snapping it shut hur-
riedly.

“He’ll recover consciousness within a
very few minutes. You’ll be wanting to
be on your way, no doubt. . .

When the doctor had escaped grate-
fully from the Shahrasad’s topsy-turvy
gravity, Mury gave power to the over-
drive, sent the ship swinging back into a
course for the point of intersection with
the flight of the power projectile. The
great curve that had taken them off the
planet had placed them now almost di-
rectly in front of that hurtling objective;
Shahrasad, still slowly gathering addi-
tional momentum, would be overtaken by
the cargo shell at the moment that she
reached a velocity practically equal with
its own.

To ensure that, Mury’s long, skillful

60 PLANET

fingers twirled a vernier, finely adjust-
ing the fuel flow into the disintegration
chambers behind the after bulkhead, and
with it the volume of steam which, smashed
to atoms, was hurled at stupendous ve-
locity from the driving jets to propel the
rocket ship. An acceleration just a trifle
under one gravity — ^the calculator clicked
out its results down to six decimals. The
gyroscopes locked the towship in its new
groove in space.

Yet Arliess jerked ineffectually in his
clamps, cried out thickly. His eyes came
stickily open behind their square goggles.
He sat stiff and still for a long minute.

Ryd underwent a considerable egofla-
tion in his contempt for this other man’s
defeat. It had been long since he had
known the savage joy of winning.

Arliess said weakly, raising both hands
to press flat against his temples, “Where —
are we ?” The same words Ryd had whim-
pered not so long ago.

Mury turned slightly to look at the as-
trogator out of the comers of his eyes.
He said deliberately, “We’re past. In-
spection’s over, and — ^thanks largely to you.
Yet Arliess, we’re clear.”

The young man sat for a moment with
head buried in his hands. Then he looked
up and out toward the motionless star
fields that glittered ahead.

“So?” he said bitterly. “What next?
Are you going to try to steal the power
shell? And if so, where are you going
to escape to? I suppose you realize that
you’d have to scoot right out of the Sys-
tem to even get clear of the Algol’s guns —
and there are four other Earth dread-
naughts in planetary space alone?”

Arliess’ words, coldly confident of a
victory that would be death for him,
chilled Ryd. But he took heart from
Mury’s jeering laughter.

“Do you think I’d have come this far if
I had feared your dreadnaughts ? They’ll
have enough to think of before the next
twenty-four hours are past, when they are
hurled in battle against all the power of
Mars!”

Arliess stiffened. “Are you crazy?
There’s no war in the air. A year ago, yes,
perhaps — but now, with the treaties signed
and trade resuming — ”

“And Earth,” snapped Mury, “sold for
that very trade into the hands of the Mar-

STORIES

tian overlords. No, war is preferable —
and we’ll have war, now.”

“You talk,” smd Arliess in a curiously
flat voice, “as if the choice of courses
rested in your hands.”

“It does. Or rather, it will — so soon as
I hold in these hands the weapon of the
power projectile.”

M URY’S voice became orotund. His
hands rested lightly on the pilot’s
controls before him and he gazed into
space-darkness as if toward an invisible
dawn. “When a Terrestial city goes sky-
ward in one terrific blast of disintegra-
tion — When Pi Mesa and Dynamopolis
vanish together from the face of ^rth
in a warningless holocaust — Then Earth
will realize the truth, if only through de-
ception.”

Ryd’s veins were trickling ice water
instead of warm blood, and his nerve cen-
ters were paralyzed. It was too big for
him, and his courage was gone again.

Mury talked on, and his voice was that
of one sincerely and earnestly trying to
convince :

“Earth’s government has made peace
with the Martians, but the instinct of the
people infallibly distmsts the treacherous
rival world. Why not — since Mars is in-
deed ready and avid to topple Earth from
her old place as the mother-planet, mis-
tress of the System? Mars, with twice
Earth’s area and five times the sunlight to
drive his heliod)mes — Mars with his robot
millions and his human oligarchy athirst
for power and glory, intoxicated with the
strength of a new, raw, rich world. Only
if we fight now can we escape domina-
tion. I am going to strike the blow that
will wake Earth to battle, and bring her
at last through pain and repentance to her
age-old greatness!”

Shahrasad hurtled steadily on before
the long hydrogen flares of her afterdrive,
and three men sat behind her controls —
and their triumph and fear and hate might
have been strong enough to reach out be-
yond the metal shell and form an auro,
not so bright but more fiercely potent,
about the rushing ship.

Then young Arliess said through his
teeth, “You know damn well it won’t
work.”

“It will,” said the Panclast, preternat-

SABOTEVR

urally calm, while his eyes were watchful
on the slowly shifting dials. Somewhere
behind them in bleak space sixty tons of
concentrated hell was creeping up.

“You can’t deceive a whole planet,”
exclaimed Arliess rapidly, desperately.
“You can’t plunge them into a war that
will cost a hundred million lives, that will
wreck the cities and the commerce of the
whole System. There hasn’t been war for
seventy years . . . between Earth and
Mars, never . . .” His voice trailed off
and he gasped for breath as if the cabin
had grown stifling.

“It is almost done,” said Mury sol-
emnly. With the words he cut off the
afterdrive. Silence fell clublike, mind-
numbing after the pounding of the rockets.

Arliess spoke again, with all the feel-
ing washed out of his voice. “Where do
you and your pal come out on this?” he
demanded carefully. “You don’t think
you can get away with this, do you, even
if you succeed in blowing up Dynamo-
polis?”

“There are some things I can’t reveal
even now, slight as are the chances of fail-
ure,” said Mury smoothly. “We won’t
be caught, though ; I can tell you that
surely. And you’ll accompany us to our
destination. It would* be best if you did
so willingly.” Ryd thought he knew what
was implicit in the Panclast’s words. There
would be some hiding-place maintained by
the secret power of We. In Antarctica,
perhaps, as rumor whispered. Ryd clung
hard to his new faith in Mury, and was
warmed by it. He dreamed. . . . Perhaps,
he, Ryd, in some new world to come from
chaos . . .

M ury thumbed a stud; the sidethrust
of the starboard drive made the
counterpoised seats tilt far to the left.
Then, as they drifted in free flight again:
“Perhaps, since you have heard the truth,
Arliess, you would like to join our cause.
Secret now, it will soon be victorious over
all Earth ... a cause of glory which
will have its heroes. . . .”

The astrogator gazed stonily ahead. “You
may be right,” he said stiffly, strangely.
“But right on wrong, you’re mad. Mad
with power.”

The other laughed softly. “That’s very
true. It is a little heady. The power that

OF SPACE 61

will rock any planet — power indeed !”

All at once the stars were darkened.
From overhead as the ship was oriented,
a long black shape, picked out by patterned
lights, drove past and dwindled into the
flaming constellations. The power shell had
arrived. Words were at an end.

Instead, there roared out the mighty
voices of the after tubes. The sustained
forward leap of the ship took breath from
their bodies. But the colored lights came
slipping back out of the starfields, their
pattern expanding swiftly as seconds
passed. As suddenly as he had accelerated,
Mury closed the throttle, cut in the fore-
drive, and started braking his speed. Then,
with delicate spurts of power from all the
rockets, he brought the Shahrasad’s speed
and course to parallel that of the great
projectile which coasted effortlessly
through space less than a mile away.

In the weightless pause, Mury said
quietly to the astrogator: “The magnet
controls are before you, Arliess. Would
it be too much strain on your conscience
to operate them now?”

The board had been built for efficiency;
of the minor duties aboard the vessel,
communications was assigned to the engi-
neer, control of the powerful grapples to
the astrogator, on the theory that while
intership communication might be needed
simultaneously with the use of the mag-
nets, the plotting of the course would not
so coincide. The strobophones and radio
— the latter dead and lightless at the mo-
ment — fronted Ryd as he fidgeted in the
engineer’s place.

Arliess had delayed a moment. Now
he answered harshly, “All right. What
do you want?”

“I was sure you would see. . . . Your
cooperation won’t be difficult. The mag-
net rheostat is already stopped at the
safety maximum for the fuel we’re going
to handle. Give them all full power, then.”
Ryd knew vaguely that too powerful mag-
netic fields upset delicate atomic balances,
had in fact caused tire great Tenebris dis-
aster of 803 on Venus — a match-sputter,
that, compared to what would soon hit
North America —

Woodenly, Arliess gave the mag-
nets power. Unseen, his hands curled
themselves tensely inside his sweat-slip-

62 PLABiET

pery rubberized gloves; he was danger-
ously near hysteria. His keen, youthful
imagination could see all too clearly into
the near future. Over half of Earth, the
skies would be red; there would be storm
and earthquake, mountains splitting, rivers
in flood, the fires of new volcanoes.

Shahrazad picked up speed again, swing-
ing in to intercept the power cylinder in
its constant flight. She forged forward
on bright wings of flame, a small, squat
ship of Fate, not a part but a target,
rest on her broad plated back.

“Half magnets,” said Mury shortly, fir-
ing another bank of tubes to correct his
course. Still robot-like, Arliess obeyed.
His right hand obeyed. But his left snaked
very slowly off the dash, under the detec-
tor box at his elbow, captured a dangling
wire. Then — ^bend this way, bend that
way, bend this way —

The last power-thrust died. Inch by
inch, Shahrazad and the fuel shell drifted
together in their parallel courses. “Full
magnets,” ordered Mury, and the drift
accelerated. For two long, waiting min-
utes it continued ; then the towship lurched
slightly, like a boat meeting a long swell,
and the great masses met with a prolonged
grinding of curving steel on stegosauric
plates of iron. A moment while they set-
tled solidly together and clung, locked;
tlien the rockets roared once more to life
and Shahrazad surged ahead evenly. To
the greatly-overpowered towship, the mere
sixty tons of the loaded cargo shell made
little or no difference.

Mury sat bolt upright in his universal
chair. His face was masked and serene,
but the straight line of his head and neck
was eloquent. His hand, resting lightly
on the controls, was that of Zeus, grip-
ping a thunderbolt.

Slowly, without speaking, he drove the
ship’s nose upward — upward as they were
leveled off, but in reality downward, for
gradually from overhead the great black
curve of a planet’s dark limb crept down,
shutting out the stars. Then its sunlit
side burst into sight and the pallid glare
came flooding through the great nose win-
dow to make the glow-lamps needless.

It was Earth, and somewhere on that
great globe, where the distorted shape of
North America sprawled through half a
dark hemisphere, was Pi Mesa. For this

STORIES

ship of Fate, not a port but a grim target.

Then Yet Arliess’ voice fell hard and
deadly on that triumphant moment,
“Mury. Cut the drive!”

Mury’s attention snapped to the astro-
gator. Even so with the back of his head
to Ryd, the latter could see tlie slow tens-
ing of his spare body, the sudden immo-
bility that took him. Ryd froze.

“You’d better think twice, Arliess,” said
Mury in a low, brittle tone.

“Cut the drive,” ordered Arliess again.
“This is journey’s end, Mury. If you
don’t cut it now, we’ll all die.”

R yd inched forward in his seat; his
fingers, numbed as if the cold of sheer
space had crept into the cabin, found the
release. Then he was able to see Arliess,
hunched forward close to his control board.
One hand clenched over the magnet rheo-
stat ; but something had gone wrong. The
astrogator had bent the synthyl handle
out and away from its contacts ; and now
something gleamed half-hidden in his hand.
Its ends were almost touching the inner
contact of the switch handle and the min-
imum-resistance tap of the rheostat coil —
a short piece of bared silver wire, whose
placing between those contacts would send
current leaping through the shortened cir-
cuit and pouring full into the maget coils.
It would envelop Shahrazad and power
cylinder in a field of great intensity — ^but
of brief duration, a fractional instant be-
fore the equilibrium of the stored atoms
toppled and towship and cargo shell, to-
gether like one, vanished in one explod-
ing flame, brighter than the Sun,

This was the end. Mury was beaten,
and of course he, Ryd, was beaten too.
For keeps, this time. With maudlin self-
pity, he saw himself as one caught and
singled out for destruction by the gods in
the machine.

“Cut the drive,” repeated Arliess for
the third time.

Still the Panclast did not move, and his
face betrayed none of what he must feel
of the terrible irony by which a bit of
wire, a short circuit, could wreck the plan
that was to have shaken a planet. He said
without stirring, “You can’t use bluff on
me, Arliess.”

“I know that and I’m not bluffing,”
said young Arliess, pale to the lips, with

SABOTEUR

burning eyes. “I know your type, Mury.
The monwnaniac. You’re not afraid of
dying, but you are afraid when the suc-
cess of your mission is threatened. But
you can forget those plans now. We’re
going to stop, flash a distress signal.”

“I never meant we should escape the
final crash of the power shell,” said Mury.
“Escape was needless to the plan, and
to die in such a cause . . . But I’ll make
you a bargain now, Arliess. I’ll let you
parachute to safety when we’re in the at-
mosphere, if you’ll swear to reveal noth-
ing. Otherwise — perhaps you are aware
of the power of — We.”

Arliess’ grin was savage. “Don’t try to
frighten me with children’s boogie-men. I
know that such an organization exists, and
I knew one of their members once — a poor,
starved gutter-rat without principles or
courage or anything but a vicious wish to
kick the world that had kicked him. No,
Mury, yov^re something else again.”

“I’ve explained my aims to you, Arliess.
I have no private wrongs to avenge. I
have acted because all history urges Earth
and Mars to the death grapple ; I have been
an agent of history. You, not I, are the
madman if you try to stand in the way.”

Arliess laughed shortly. “I hold the
final argument, though. . . . Cut the drive!”

V

F or A moment their eyes met. Mury,
all his weapons blunted, sat unmoving.
Ryd, forehead beaded, gripping the arms
of his chair, afraid to move or cry out
lest he bring doom upon the ship, thought
he. saw Arliess’ fingers start to tighten.

But in that instant a voice crashed into
the death-still cabin. Harsh and vibrant,
it rang through the open strobophones.

“Shahrasad! Algol calling Shahrazad!
You are twenty-one degrees off course and
failing to correct as per schedule. What
is the matter?”

“All right,” said Arliess, his voice husky.
“Last chance, Mury, before I blow us to
atoms. Call them back. Tell them to
overhaul us 4nd board. From the inten-
sity of that signal, they can’t be far away.”

And indeed, even now the stars began
to blur to the approach of the battle cruiser.
Plainly, it had been trailing near; the

OF SPACE 63

dead detectors had told them nothing.
Perhaps, after all, suspicion had been
bom behind the official calm facade. At
any rate, here upon them were Algol and
its guns. . . . Again the voice came through
the phones, querulously now.

Mury, without making any sudden mo-
tion, pressed his release. With equal care
•he came to his feet, standing without ef-
fort against a little more than one gravity.

“The message sent,” he said coolly, “will
be ‘Temporarily electrical failure. All un-
der control.’ ” With that he knelt down
in the narrow space between the crew-
chairs and the instrument board.

“If that fool tries to jump me, Ryd, use
the gun.” His hands started to grope at
the under panels of the control board, pur-
posefully but without haste. “I’m going to
disconnect the central fuse.”

“You’ll never touch it,” said Arliess
with a gasp. “I’m shorting the coil — now!”

Ryd had, in a dazed automatism, lifted
the gun. It was heavy and unsteady in
his gloved right hand. He stared with
eyes out of focus and with a sense of night-
mare ; death was coming and he wanted to
live, had to stop it somehow, anyhow, nozv —

Then all at once the gun steadied in his
hand, burned hot as it spat its crisping
thunderbolt. The cabin shook to the blast.

And the weapon slipped from Ryd’s
hand. He drew in air, sharp with ozone,
in short sobbing gasps, and cowered in his
padded seat, shaking uncontrollably. But
he was alive, still alive.

Arliess crouched half in and half out of
his seat. He brought up the pistol which
he had snatched almost as it fell, trained
it across the motionless bundle between
them on the floor. Mury was dead, as
dead as many another dreamer whose hu-
man tools have turned in his hands.

The astrogator snapped, “Take the stro-
bophone sender and call Algol. Tell them
— tell them — ”

“He’d have killed us all,” gasped Ryd,
cringing.

He choked off as the astrogator lashed
out open-handed, knocking him to the floor.
The young man stood for a moment gaz-
ing down on him, liands clenched at his
sides; then —

“You rati” he snarled. “You filthy
little rat!”

A RINGER FEUD BREAKS OUT

" WFIY cant YOUTIORGANS ANDSWORGS FEDD
VITH GUNS LIKE OTHER PEOPLE ?

64

QUEST’S EMI

By BASIL WELLS

Tlilg’s qnest was not yet finished, for the Hordes of Ortha had sent
another ship across the Void. Only he could halt Earth’s destmc-
tion— — with a weapon that was hnt a thought in his mind.

Illustration by Doolin

T WAS a fool,” gritted Thig. His ugly metal snout of the instrument pointed
I eye crowded the eyepiece of the toward the eastern horizon. “I should have
-L compact metal case on the table be- expected the men of Ortha to send a second
fore him. The window was open and the expedition to Earth !”

5 — Planet — Spring 65

66 PLACET

Thig’s compact body stiffened angrily.
He came to his feet, his gaze roaming
about the familiar disorder of the little
boathouse. Here he came daily to write
the lusty sagas of the Old West that had
made the name of Lewis Terry familiar
to millions of readers. Here beside the
pot-bellied iron stove with the single cracked
lid, he had worked long hours, striving
vainly to forget that he was an alien being
from another distant world.

Curiosity, a trait that no other Orthan
had possessed for many thousands of years,
Iiad impelled him to construct a small, but
powerful, etherscope, and trace the fate
of the space ship he had deserted. It had
been built of odds and ends of material
at night, but it opened the heavens before
him. He saw planets and suns, countless
light years distant many of them, and
eventually he found Ortha — in time to see
the space ship being boarded out in space
by patrolling Hordemen, and quickly de-
stroyed. They were taking no chances on
the spread of the contagion from Earth
among the Orthans.

For the good of the Horde, the alien
that was Lewis Terry knew, the patrolmen
would transmit the information they re-
ceived, and then destroy themselves. In
their narrow philosophy of life only the
Horde mattered. He had been like that
when his name was Thig, and the mem-
ories of Lewis Terry were not yet part
of his life.

And now another space ship was coming
to Earth, coming to check on the findings
of that earlier ill-fated expedition, and he
alone could checkmate them! . . . If he
had only kept watch on Ortha 1

He had two months, possibly a few days
more than that, in which to destroy this
second expedition that meant conquest and
certain death for all Earth’s warring mil-
lions ! Two months to prepare I

For the good of Ellen and the children,
the children of the dead man whose iden-
tity he had stolen, he must succeed. The
lusty primitives of this rich green world
must never be replaced by the disciplined
robot race that was the Horde.

He covered his typewriter. The lock
snapped with finality as he turned the
key. He flexed the muscles of great arms,
much too powerful for the meek appear-

STORIES

ance of the writer they were, and the
blood beat hot through his squat body.

“You’re staying locked,” he said slowly,
“until the last Hordeman is wiped from
the face of Earth.” He smiled grimly as
he reflected that his hero was trapped atop
a waterless butte with a horde of Apaches
howling below.

“Hope you can stick it out for eight or
nine weeks without water, Brazos,” he
said to the typed pages he was leaving.

HE LIFE BOAT lifted sluggishly
from the sands that had covered it
for two years. Thig cleared each jet care-
fully, and then, finding them unharmed,
he bored high into the stratosphere. Be-
hind him the submarine patrol and the
air-raid posts went mildly insane. They
knew that some strange craft had roared
up from the beach on Long Island, but
they were never to know what it was.

Ellen, Lewis Terry’s wife, clenched the
short letter that her husband had pressed
into her hand as he kissed her earlier that
evening. She did not know that he was
really Thig, nor did the letter reveal that
fact. If he was to die, he would die Lewis
Terry. The letter told her simply that
he must go away on a secret mission for
several months. She understood now why
the unshed tears had been bright in his
eyes.

Over the United States Thig blasted
the life boat, and across the Pacific. He
was getting as far from Long Island as
he could, and one of his plans to destroy
the Orthans called for many tons of ex-
plosives. Explosives, he told himself
grimly, that the yellow men would furnish.

He landed at last on a rocky strip of
island that was outside the combat zone,
and there commenced to lay out his trap.
It would take many tons of explosives to
penetrate the tough hull of the space ship
he knew, but the ship must be destroyed.
He had considered building a huge heat
blaster, but the time was too limited and
he knew how powerful were the protective
shells of a space ship’s skin.

Gadgets he had considered; tricks that
might gain for him entry into the ship
where he could turn his own decomposi-
tion blaster on his brothers — ^all the tricks
of the writing trade had passed muster
before his mind’s eye — but inevitably he

qVEST^S END 67

returned to the decision that explosives
gave the only certain means of destruction.

There was an island not far from his
landing place where the men with yellow
skins had stored a great quantity of muni-
tions and supplies. The fighting front
was far to the East and at night no great
precautions were taken. Any approaching
fleet of bombers or surface ships would
be detected long before they could reach
this island. Nothing but submarines.

Thig’s space ship moved almost silently
through the water offshore. The design
of the ship that permitted no air to escape
now permitted no water to enter. For
many of the planets that Ortha claimed for
her own possessed gaseous envelopes that
were denser than water, and the Horde’s
ships were equipped to meet those con-
ditions.

Softly the bow of the little craft nosed
up on the beach inside the harbor, and
from its single lock stepped Thig. Naked
he was now, as were all Hordemen, and
from the harness of flexible plastic about
his body there depended a decomposition
blaster and an old butcher knife that he
had whetted to razor sharpness.

“You hear something?” asked one of
the two guards.

“It was the waves,” his comrade said,
listening for a moment.

“In the darkness I can see nothing,”
grumbled the first Jap. “Perhaps the
Marines are landing.”

“Ho,” laughed the other guard, “the
Marines are thousands of miles away. They
cannot stand against the power of our
Emperor.”

“It has been more than a year,” said the
fearful one, “and we have not yet con-
quered all of California. I have heard
that a few Marines are still hiding in the
Solomons.”

“The radio does not tell you that,”
scoffed the guard. “We have sunk every
American boat. There are no more Amer-
ican airplanes in the Pacific. Soon we
will all move to America and have the white
barbarians to wait upon us.”

“Was that a Japanese bomber yester-
day?” The man’s rifle thunked lightly
against wood. “There were circles on its
wings.”

“There may be a few left,” was the
excuse of the other guard. “Now we

must cease talking and walk our posts.”

Now Thig could make out the shapes
of the guards as they went their way.
One of them, the short, thick yellow man
was coming slowly toward the tree that
sheltered Thig. Perhaps he was dream-
ing of the fertile valleys of America, where
the white-skinned men and women would
be his servants, as he walked along.

Abruptly great fingers clamped around
his throat, and he felt the sting of something
that slammed against his chest. His feet
scuffed at the soil, and then a great roaring
filled his ears.

Thig eased the limp body to the earth.
The other slim guard had halted, his ner-
vously acute ears picking up some vague
sound.

“What — ^what was that?” he called to his
comrade.

Thig eased his blaster from its holster.
In a moment the guard would arouse the
other members of the garrison. The dis-
tance was too great for the knife — ^the
man would be able to fire his rifle before
he reached him.

The weapon’s invisible rays slammed the
Jap’s body backward. Even as he fell the
flesh was falling, rotted by the blaster’s
swift decomposing action, from the man’s
bones. A moment later only the crumbling
bones of a skeleton remained of what had
been a soldier.

He loaded the little ship to its capacity
with explosives from the stores on the
island, and before he left he touched a
match to the buildings. Then he blasted
off, with the water clearing explosively
from his spacer’s overloaded jets to arouse
the sleeping warriors of the Mikado.

A fter that first foray Thig raided
many an outlying island, and looted
the sunken transports that lay in the shal-
lowed water between some of the captured
islands. He mounted a heavy machine gun
in the nose of his agile IMe craft, and
many a yellow man never returned to his
home landing field. By days he hid near
his objectives, in the jungle or the shallow
water in the shadows of a jutting coral
reef, and by night he moved like a giant
crab, in his space suit, among the sunken
ships.

His stores of explosives he concealed in
a great ring around the heart of the island

PLANET STORIES

68

— the only practical landing spot for the
space cruiser, already slackening its ter-
rific drive as it passed Pluto. How many
tons of the deadly material he had col-
lected he could not tell, but there was
already sufficient to blow the island and
everything upon it into oblivion.

Time was growing short. Less than a
day remained in which to bait the trap
with his own ship for bait. The cruiser’s
detectors would pick up the trylerium’s
characteristic radiations from the pitted
walls of his rocket jets — the blasting jets
of all space ships were made of trylerimn
— and they would land nearby.

That he would be blown up, too, in the
explosion did not matter greatly, thought
Thig. Ellen, the wife of the man he had
helloed kill, and the children, would be
safe. Earth could go on in its own bloody
blundering way to a glorious future.

But first he must bring back another
load, the final link in the deadly ring about
the landing place. Morning was at hand.
He would have to work fast. He left
the load where it lay and blasted off.

The great bomber, with the circles
painted on its wings, passed over the little
island. It returned. The pilot shouted
and bombs intended for a target several
hundred miles to the south took their final
plunge earthward.

The ship was bullet-scarred — off its
course — and since this was Japanese-
dominated water his mistake was only
natural. He took the caches of munitions
for enemy supply dumps.

It was his last mistake. The island
dissolved into splintered fragments, and
with it went the bomber and its brave
crew.

T hig awaited the coming of the ship
from Ortha on another island. He
had accepted the destruction of his long
weeks of planning with the fatalism that
the Horde had taught him. Since one plan
had fallen through he must use another.
He would persuade the Orthans that he
wanted to return to his own people, and
once inside, with a little good fortune, he
might be able to destroy them. He had
killed his two fellows on the first expedi-
tion, but already his fertile imagination
had invented a logical explanation of his
presence on Earth.

As the great ship swung down past Luna
his radiophone came into play. Their
detectors might pick up his weak signals
at this distance even though they would
have no reason to expect an Orthan ship
here on Earth. His whole plan was based
on the strategy of luring them here before
they could start a thorough exploration
of Earth.

Time went by swiftly, too swiftly, for
there was no answer from the ship. He
thought of taking off to meet them, but
already the ship must be screaming down
through the upper atmosphere. He shouted
into the transmitter.

A grating sound came from the receiver.
A hollow sound of contact that he sensed
rather than heard. A cold emotionless
voice spoke in the strangely unfamiliar
language of the Horde.

“Who is calling the ship from Planet
72-P-3?’’ it demanded.

“A fellow Hordeman from Ortha,” re-
plied Thig hurriedly. “I escaped from the
space cruiser commanded by Torp, after
madness claimed him. He struck down
Kam first, and then attacked me. After
he left me for dead, I took a lifeboat and
escaped.”

“You are Thig?” said the even voice
of the man from Ortha.

“That is right,” asknowledged th? other.

“Urol, commanding the second expedi-
tionary flight to Sector 5-Z,” the Horde-
man identified himself. “With me are
three others: Brud, Zolg, and Turb.”

“Zolg and Turb I know,” said Thig.
“We trained together.”

“Our detectors show that your location
is in the largest body of water, near the
eastern shore of the principal land mass
of Planet 72-P-3. Is that correct?”

“Right. There is room’ to berth five
like yours upon this uninhabited island.
Here we will be safe from the Mad Ones,”

Thig could almost see the Hordeman’s
smooth brow furrow with the unaccus-
tomed task of thinking. The majority of
the Horde’s thinking was automatic, seldom
did an alien thought intrude upon their
formulized system of life. He smiled
tautly — another gift from the dead man
whose memories he had robbed was that
of humor — as he listened for Urol’s answer.
There could be only one logical explana-

qVEST*S END 69

tion for Thig’s words. And Urol, like
all the Hordemen, was a coldly logical
being.

“There is madness on this world then?”
Urol asked.

“That is right.” Thig drew upon the
story-telling genius of Terry as he related
the carefully plotted story that would per-
mit him entrance to the Orthan ship.
They must believe him. . . .

“There is madness on this world, indeed,”
he went on, after a moment, “but it did
not originate here. Kam and Torp, when
they returned from the watery planet.
Planet 72-P-2, brought back the virus of
madness with them. Both of them were
infected, and their brief stay on this planet
served to spread the disease here also.

“All over Earth, or as ,we call it,
72-P-3, the madness is spreading. Where
there was peace and plenty there is now
war and starvation. Most of this sub-
human animal race will be wiped out be-
fore this madness has run its course.”

“Yet you escaped its ravages,” Urol said.
“Have you discovered how to control this
madness ?”

“But I did not escape,” Thig told him.
“For many days after I returned to Earth
I was insane. Torp and Kam had in-
fected me as well. But I am strong, and
I threw off the disease. At intervals it
recurs but I strap myself down so I cannot
harm myself before the madness passes.”

“By the Law of the Horde,” said Urol
slowly, “you should be destroyed if the
disease is incurable.”

“I know. I feared that another expedi-
tion would come and carry the madness
back to the Harde. I kept myself alive
to warn you. I will show you the ravages
of the disease, and then destroy myself.”

“It is good,” agreed Urol. “We are
preparing to land now.”

The communication link snapped between
them. Above the island a tiny black speck
swelled until it became a vast grubby bulk
of metal supported by flaring jets of gase-
ous fuel. The thick ship slowed its sheer
drop, and with a final burst of fire from
blackened jets, came to rest.

Thig looked to his decomposition blaster
to see that it was thoroughly charged. This
was perhaps the hundredth time he had
examined his weapon. He chuckled at the
ease with which the leader of the mother

planet’s ship had been tricked into believ-
ing his fantastic tale. All that remained
now was to gain admission into the space
ship.

He left his own little life boat and walked
toward the space cruiser. He reached the
outer lock and attempted to open it. It
was stuck. He tugged futilely at the pitted
metal of the controls, and after a moment
hammered at the door with a lump of vol-
canic rock.

A speaker from just inside the door
broke in upon his labor. He dropped the
rock and listened.

“Why do you attack the door ?” it asked.

“The lock is stuck,” answered Thig.

“No,” the Hordeman’s voice said, “the
lock is not stuck. It is sealed against the
possibility of contamination from the at-
mosphere of 72-P-3.”

“I cannot join you?” asked Thig as
calmly as he could. Despair contracted
his vitals as he saw this latest plan go
glimmering.

“Naturally not !” The speaker’s voice
showed as much surprise as it was possible
for an Orthan to display. “We can take no
chances on the madness infecting any of
us before we carry this information back
to Ortha.”

“I will tell you as much as I know,”
said Thig. “It is fortunate that I am
outside the ship.”

“Yes,” agreed the voice. “Better that
one die instead of four. The resources
of the Horde must be conserved.”

A ll through that first night after the
space ship landed beside his little
life boat, Thig lay on his sleeping deck
trying to work out another method to
overcome the four Hordemen inside their
sturdy cruiser.

Explosives were out; he had lost his
opportunity to blast the great ship into
shards when the Allied bomber had mis-
taken them for Japanese supplies. Trick-
ery that would permit him to gain entrance
was negated by the sealed ports and locks
of the space cruiser. He could not blast
an opening through the ship’s skin with
his decomposition blaster — it was designed
to destroy only flesh or vegetable matter.

Nor could he lure a Japanese or Allied
force of bombers to attack the Orthan ship.
The weapons of the space cruiser would

70 PLANET

destroy such crude-winged mechanisms as
might be thrown against them, and her
own hull could not be damaged save by
the most concentrated surprise attack. He
knew how the Earthmen would work — a
cautious bomber or two could attack first,
and then, too late, a swarm of fighting
planes and bombers would follow.

He could not lure brave Allied fliers
to their death in any such fashion, nor
did he think that the yellow airmen could
cause any worth-while damage — not that
he cared how many of them were destroyed !
He might be an alien being from another
world, but there was now no more loyal
American than Thig. He had permitted
the identity of Lewis Terry to overcome
his own entirely.

No, he would have to solve this prob-
lem by himself. Upon Thig, and Thig
alone, rested the future of the two billions
of mankind. If the Horde saw through his
fanciful story about the disease that was
carried from Venus in the bodies of Kara
and Torp, Earth would soon be overrun
by the Horde. The Horde was unimagina-
tive and logical in all that it did. a robot
race of super ant-beings — and they would
destroy all the human race to prevent any
future revolt.

But if he could somehow thwart them;
destroy this expedition, or send back an-
otlier mute shipload of dead bodies as he
had already done. Earth might not be
visited again for several centuries. And
sire would be ready then, with a fully
developed science of her own, to beat off
any invasion from Ortha.

He would have to play out the game
as he had started it, until an opportunity
came to strike, and then he would strike
hard. He went over the story he had
already told the Orthans, testing it for
weak points that might give him the lie,
and at last he was satisfied. In no way
he had offended logic — the Great War that
had spread across Earth since he first
arrived would but serve to corroborate his
story.

With morning the explosion of
bombs brought Thig to his feet.
He cursed as he saw three airplanes
circling overhead. They had come to in-
vestigate the mighty explosion that had
sent a tidal wave rolling over the nearby
atolls probably, but this was going to make

STORIES

it awkward for Thig to finish his task.

The ships were Japanese light bombers
he saw. They must have seen the circles
that he had painted upon his tiny space
ship, and mistaken the space cruiser for a
larger Allied ship of some new design.

His receiver crackled as he answered the
curt demands of Urol.

“They are the Mad Ones,” Thig said.
“Their madness causes them to fight among
themselves. They drop their puny explo-
sives foolishly upon the homes of other
human cattle, taking great pleasure in wan-
ton slaughter.”

“But why do they attack us?” asked
Urol. “Our ship cannot be harmed by
their containers of expanding gases !”

“It is because they are insane, their
minds diseased hopelessly.” Thig smiled
to himself. “I will go up to meet them,
and destroy them with one of their own
weapons.”

“That is unnecessary,” said Urol, “our
own armament. . . .”

T hig snapped off the receiver. He
sprang to the controls, and sent the lit-
tle ship rocketing skyward. He patted the
heavy machine-gun that had been part of
his loot from one of the sunken transports.
It was mounted in the nose of his craft,
and already it had knocked a score of
Zeros and other Jap planes from the skies.

He dove upon one of the crawling
winged enemy ships. The gun chattered
briefly, and smoke and flames curled back
from the doomed plane’s engine. One!

Another airplane climbed clumsily up
to meet this wingless metal arrow. His
sights centered on the target. Abruptly
the enemy ship was gone, whiffed away by
the terrific invisible rays of the space
cruiser’s atomic batteries, Thig frowned.
These Orthans!

Thig climbed. The remaining Jap ship
did not attempt escape. Instead it dove
straight upon its target. Down it went
screaming, its wings ripping away from
the fuselage with the battering of the air
at this terrific speed, even as the atomic
cannons blasted again and again. The
space ship’s guns handled awkwardly on
the ground.

Suddenly, the airplane disintegrated as
an atomic bolt hit it squarely. The space
ship ceased firing, and Thig slipped his

qVEST^S END 71

ehip back to earth. He clicked open his
transmitter.

“You will be destroyed before we return
to Ortha,” said Urol. “We cannot permit
one of the Horde to live whose body and
brain differ from the rest of us.”

“That is right,” agreed Thig. “I should
have killed myself before you came.” He
paused. “I should not have tried to warn
you.”

“You are wrong again,” Urol told him.
“This madness destroys your reason. You
were right in living until we came, to
warn us. Now we can warn the Horde
that 72-P-3 will be unsafe for colonization
for many years.”

Thig felt his lips twitch into a grin.
Fortunate that these ships were not
equipped with telescreens. His story had
convinced the methodical, robot - like
Orthans. If he could keep them from
learning that there was actually no mad-
ness on Earth until he could contrive to
destroy them.

The next w'ords of the commander of
the space cruiser sounded thunder-loud in
his ears, tumbling his plans into ruin.

“We will return to Ortha with our re-
ports at once,” said Urol.

T hig sat frozen in his seat for a long
moment staring at the transmitter. If
he could only be certain that the Horde
would find no flaws in his story; that
Earth would never know the destruction
that the Horde would bring.

And then he laughed. Fool! The
Orthans were unimaginative as domes-
ticated cattle. They were robotized ani-
mals, all but devoid of intelligence. He
should have remembered sooner, for he
had been one of the Horde before he stole
the memories of an Earthman, and fell in
love with the dead man’s woman!

Until he came to Earth, Thig had never
known that there was such a thing as a
lie. Among the men of Ortha there was
no deceit or treachery. If they killed or
destroyed, it was necessary. If they re-
lated any happening, however unimportant,
it was painstakingly accurate. Imagina-
tion was a word that was meaningless
mong the disciplined billions of the Horde.
They would not detect a lie for they would
not recognize one! Earth was safe.

“That is good,” he said. “I will wait
until you leave Earth, and then I will de-
stroy the ship and myself.”

Over China they knifed, over the ruined
cities and bomber fields, and down across
Russia where vast armies locked in bloody
combat. They saw here again great cities
that were ravaged by war. Higher they
climbed above the ocean, until, above North
America, Thig dropped behind the great
cruiser.

He called the commander of the space
cruiser then.

“My fuel is almost exhausted,” he said.

“Prepare to dive into the Earth,”
said Urol in his emotionless voice. “We
cannot waste the power of our ship to ray
you. The senseless assaults of the madmen
caused us to waste much of our power.”

“I am leaving now,” said Thig. “May
the Law of the Horde endure forever!”
And under his breath ; “on Ortha.”

Thig let the life boat drop away from
the other ship. Slowly it fell at first, and
then faster as gravity gripped it. Fifty
miles the ship must fall before it smashed
into the ground. By that time the cruiser
would be already beyond the orbit of the
moon, and all they would see would be the
moment of impact.

Friction was heating the metal skin of
the ship slowly as it fell. Thig locked the
controls; set the rocket relays for increas-
ingly powerful thrusts of power, and wad-
dled clumsily out through the lock into the
frigid thin air of the stratosphere. He
stepped out into emptiness.

Inside the space suit it was warm, and
the air was clean. When he had fallen a
few miles farther he would open the glider
wings, that were built into all Orthan
suits instead of parachutes, and land on
Long Island. ‘ But not until he was shel-
tered by the clouds from the view of the
space cruiser.

He was going back to Ellen and the
children with the knowledge that Earth was
saved from the Horde — saved by nothing
more deadly than a lie!

And the part of Thig’s brain that was
Lewis Terry was already busying itself
with the plotting of a Western novel about
the handcart pioneers. . . . Once he had
rescued Brazos from that Apache-ringed
mesa, he would get to work on it. . . .

W^anderers W^olf JIfooii

By NELSOIV S. BOND

They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio
smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile
world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm,
the bespectacled secretary— whose only adventures had come

through the pages of a book.

72

Illustration by IngeU

S parks snapped off the switches and
followed him to the door of the
radio turret. Sparks was a stunted,
usually-grinning, little redhead named Han-
nigan. But he wasn’t grinning now. He
laid an anxious hand on Greg’s arm. “If
I was you,” he said, “if I was you, Mal-
colm, I don’t think I’d say nothing to the
boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.”
Greg said, “Why not?”

Sparks spluttered and fussed and made
heavy weather of answering.

“Well, for one thing, it ain’t Important.
It would only worry him. And then there’s
the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of
course they ain’t no cause to. Atmospherics
don’t mean nothing. I’ve rode out worse
storms than this — plenty of times. And in
worse crates than the Carefree.”

Greg studied him carefully from behind
trim plasta-rimmed spectacles. He drew a
deep breath. He said levelly, “So it’s that
bad, eh, Sparks?”

“What bad? I just told you — ”

73

74 PLANET

“I know. Sparks, I’m not a professional
spaceman. But I’ve studied astrogation as
few Earthlubbers have. It’s been my hobby
for years. And I think I know what we’re
up against.”

‘‘We hit a warp-eddy last night. We’ve
been trapped in a vortex for more than
eight hours. Lord only knows how many
hundreds of thousands of miles we’ve been
borne off our course. And now we’ve blasted
into a super-ionized belt of atmospherics.
Your radio signals are blanketed. You
can’t get signals in or out. We’re a deaf-
mute speck of metal being whirled head-
long through space. Isn’t that it ?”

‘‘I don’t know what — ” began Sparks
hotly. Then he stopped, studied his com-
panion thoughtfully, nodded. ‘‘O.Q.,” he
confessed, ‘‘that’s it. But we ain’t licked
yet. We got three good men on the bridge.
Townsend . . . Graves . . . Langhom.
They’ll pull out of this if anybody can. And
they ain’t no sense in scaring the Old Man
and his family.”

‘‘I won’t tell them,” said Greg. “I won’t
tell them unless I have to. But between
you and me, what are the odds against us.
Sparks ?”

The radioman shrugged.

“Who knows? Vortices are unpredict-
able. Maybe the damn thing will toss us
out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe
it will give us the old chuckeroo a million
miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will
crack us up on an asteroid or satellite. No
way of telling till it happens.”

“And the controls ?”

“As useless,” said Sparks, “as a cow
in a cyclone.”

“So?”

“We sit tight,” said Sparks succinctly,
“and hope.”

Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off
his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped
them, replaced them. He was tall and fair ;
in his neat, crisply pressed business suit he
appeared even slimmer than he was. But
there was no nervousness in his move-
ments. He moved measuredly. “Well,”
he said, “that appears to be that. I’m going
up to the dining dome.”

Sparks stared at him querulously.

“You’re a queer duck, Malcolm. I don’t
think you’ve got a nerve in your body.”

“Nerves are a luxury I can’t afford,”
replied Greg. “If anything happens — ^and

STORIES

if there’s time to do so — let me know.”
He paused at the door. “Good luck,” he
said.

“Clear ether!” said Sparks mechanically.
He stared after the other man wonderingly
for a long moment, then went back to his
control banks, shaking his head and mut-
tering.

G regory MALCOLM climbed down
the Jacob’s-ladder and strode briskly
through the labyrinthine corridors that were
the entrails of the space yacht Carefree,
He paused once to peer through a perilens
set into the ship’s port plates. It was a
weird sight that met his gaze. Not space,
ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad
flaming splotches of color; not the old,
familiar constellations treading their ever-
lasting, inexorable paths about the peri-
meter of Sol’s tiny universe, but a shim-
mering webwork of light, so tortured-violet
that the eyes ached to look upon it. This
was the mad typhoon of space-atmospherics
through which the Carefree was now being
twisted, topsy-turvy, toward a nameless
goal.

He moved on, approaching at last the
quartzite-paned observation rotunda which
was the dining dome of the ship.

His footsteps slowed as he composed
himself to face those within. As he hesi-
tated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick
of lights on glass mirrored to him the room
beyond. He could see the others while
they were as yet unaware of his presence.
Their voices reached him clearly.

J. Foster Andrews, his employer and
the employer of the ten thousand or more
men and women who worked for Galactic
Metals Corporation, dominated the head
of the table. He was a plump, impatient
little Napoleon. Opposite him, calm, grace-
ful, serene, tastefully garbed and elabor-
ately coiffured even here in deep space,
three weeks from the nearest beauty shop,
sat his wife, Enid.

On Andrews’ right sat his sister, Maud.
Not young, features plain as a mud fence,
but channing despite her age and homeli-
ness simply because of her eyes; puckish,
shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint
with suppressed humor at — ^guessed Greg —
the amusing foibles and frailties of those
about her.

She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic

WAKDERERS OF THE WOLF IHOON

attention of one too old_ and shapeless to
be concerned with such folderol as calories
and dietetics, pausing only from time to
time to share smidgeons of food with a
watery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff be-
side her chair. Her pet poodle, whom she
called by the opprobrious title of ‘‘Cuddles.”

On J. Foster’s left sat his daughter.
Crystal. She it was who caused Gregory
Malcolm’s staid, respectable heart to give a
little lurch as he glimpsed her reflected
vision — all gold and crimson and cream —
in the glistening walls. If Crystal was her
name, so, too, was crystal her loveliness.

But — Greg shook his head — ^but she was
not for him. She was already pledged to
the young man seated beside her. Ralph
Breadon. He turned to murmur something
to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and
admired and disliked his rangy height, his
sturdy, well-knit strength, the rich brown-
ness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.

The sound of his own name startled
Greg.

“Malcolm!” called the man at the head
of the table. “Malcolm! Now where in
blazes is he, anyhow ?” he demanded' of no
one in particular, everyone in general. He
spooned a dab of liquid gold from a
Limoges preserve jar, tongued it suspici-
ously, frowned. “Bitter!” he complained.

“It’s the very best Martian honey,” said
his wife.

“Drylands clover,” added Crystal.

“It’s still bitter,” said J. Foster petu-
lantly.

His sister sniffed. “Nonsense ! It’s
delightful.”

“I say it’s bitter,” repeated Andrews
sulkily. And lifted his voice again.
“Malcolm! Where are you?”

“You called me, sir?” said Malcolm,
moving into the room. He nodded politely
to the others. “Good morning, Mrs. An-
drews . . . Miss Andrews . . . Mr.
Breadon. ...”

“Oh, sit down !” snapped J. Foster. “Sit
down here and stop bobbing your head like
a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The
honey’s no good; it’s bitter.” He glared
at his sister challengingly. “Where have
you been, anyway ? What kind of secretary
are you? Have you been up to the radio
turret ? How’s the market today ? Is
Galactic up or down?”

Malcolm said, “I don’t know, sir.”

75

“Fine ! Fine !” Andrews rattled on auto-
matically before the words registered. Then
he started, his face turning red. “Eh?
What’s that ? Don’t know ! What do you
mean, you don’t know? I pay you to — ”
“Tliere’s no transmission, sir,” said Greg
quietly.

“No trans-nonsense! Of course there’s
transmission ! I put a million credits into
this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built.
Latest equipment throughout. Sparks is
drunk, that’s what you mean! Well, you
hop right up there and — ”

M aud Andrews put down her

fork with a clatter. “Oh, for good-
ness sakes, Jonathan, shut up and give the
boy time to explain I He’s standing there
with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout,
trying to get a word in edgewise ! What’s
the trouble, Gregory ?” She turned to Greg,
as Jonathan Foster Andrews wheezed into
startled silence. “That?”

She glanced at the quartzite dome, be-
yond which the veil of iridescence wove
and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid
aurora.

Greg nodded. “Yes, Miss Andrews.”
Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the
other end of the table.

“But what is it, Gregory? A local
phenomenon ?”

“You might call it that,” said Greg, se-
lecting his words cautiously. “It’s an
ionized field into which we’ve blasted. It
— it — shouldn’t stay with us long. But
while it persists, our radio will be blanketed
out.”

Breadon’s chestnut head came up sud-
denly, sharply.

“Ionization 1 That means atmosphere!”
Greg said, “Yes.”

“And an atmosphere means a body in
space somewhere near — ” Breadon stopped,
bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm’s
eyes, tried to pass it off easily. “Oh,
well — a change of scenery, what?”

But the moment of alarm in his voice
had not passed unnoticed. Crystal Andrews
spoke for all of them, her voice preter-
naturally quiet.

“You’re hiding something, Malcolm.
What is it? Is there — danger?”

But Greg didn’t have to answer that
question. From the doorway a harsh,
defiantly strident voice answered for him.

76 PLANET

The voice of Bert Andrews, Crystal’s older
brother,

“Danger? You’re damn right tliere’s
danger ! What’s the matter with you folks
— are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We’ve
been caught in a space-vortex for hours.
Now we’re in the H-Iayer of a planet we
can’t even see — ^and in fifteen minutes or
fifteen seconds we may all be smashed as
flat as pancakes !’’

The proclamation brought them out of
their chairs. Greg’s heart sank; his vain
plea, “Mr. Andrews — ’’ was lost in the
medley of Crystal’s sudden gasp, Enid'
Andrews’ short, choking scream, J. Foster’s
bellowing roar at his only son.

“Bert — ^you’re drunk!’’

Bert weaved precariously from the door-
way, laughed in his father’s face.

“Sure I’m drunk! Why not? If you’re
smart you’ll get drunk, too. The whole
damn lot of you !’’ He flicked a derisive
hand toward Greg. “You too. Boy Scout!
What were you trying to do — ^hide the bad
news from them? Well, it’s no use. Every-
body might as well know the worst. We’re
gone gooses . . . geeses , . . aw, what the
hell ! Dead ducks !’’ He fell into a chair,
sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with
fear riding the too-high notes of his
laughter.

J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly.
His ire had faded; there was only deep
concern in his voice,

“Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?”

Greg said soberly, “Partly, sir. He’s
overstating the danger — ^but there is dan-
ger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and
as Mr. Breadon realized, the presence of
these ionics means we’re in the Heaviside-
layer of some heavenly body. But we may
not crack up.”

Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Not a thing. The officers on the bridge
are doing everything possible,”

“In that case,” said the older woman,
“we might as well finish our breakfast.
Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!” She
sat down again. Greg looked at her ad-
miringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown
jaw. He said, “The life-skiffs?”

“A last resort,” said Greg. “Sparks
promised he’d let me know if it were neces-
sary. We’ll hope it’s not — ”

But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in

STORIES

the last, vain moment. For even as he
phrased the hopeful words, came the sound
of swift, racing footsteps up the corridor.
Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes
hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled
Greg’s final hopes for safety.

“Everybody — ^the Number Four life-skiff
— quick! We’ve been caught in a grav-
drag and we’re going to crash!”

II

T hose next hectic moments were
never afterward very clear in Greg
Malcolm’s memory. He had a confused
recollection of hearing Sparks’ warning
punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which
he vaguely identified as emanating from
Mrs. Andrews’ throat ... he was con-
scious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his
feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a
ship out of control, gripped by gravitational
forces beyond its power to allay ... he re-
called his own voice dinning in his ears as,
incredibly, with Sparks, he took command
of the hasty flight from the dining dome
down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the
ramp, across girdered beams in the super-
structure to the small, independently mo-
tored rocket-skiff cradled there.

He was aware, too, of strangely dis-
connected incidents happening around him,
he being a part of them but seeming to be
only a disinterested spectator to their
strangeness. Of his forcing Maud An-
drews toward the door of the dome ... of
her pushing back against him with all the
weight of her body ... of her irate voice,
“Cuddles ! I forgot him !” Then the shrill
excited yapping of the poodle cradled
against her as they charged on down the
corridor.

J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging
at his arm, panting, “The officers ?” and his
own unfelt assurance. “They can take care
of themselves. It’s a general ’bandon ship.”
Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a
filmy peignoir . . . himself bending to lift
her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feel-
ing the warm animal heat of her excited
body hot beneath them . . . Crystal An-
drews stopping suddenly, crying, “ ’Tina !”
. . . and Hannigan’s reply, “Your maid? I
woke her. She’s in the life-skiff.” Bert
Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in
the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 77

losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the
ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their
feet.

Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as
Hannigan slammed the port behind the last
of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the
quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos,
and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rush-
ingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums
throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and
bloody with the fierce velocity of their
escape.

Sense and meaning returned only when
all this ended. As one waking from a
nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned
to a world he could recognize. A tiny
world, encased within the walls of a forty-
foot life-skiff. A world peopled too
scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his
son and daughter; ’Tina Laney, the maid;
Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O’Doul,
the cabin-boy (though where he had come
from, or when, Greg did not know). And
himself. In a life-skiff. In space.

Somewhere in space. He looked through
the perilens. What he saw then he might
better never have seen. For that shimmer-
ing pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now,
and in the clean, cold, bitter-dear light of a
distant sun he watched the death-dive of
the yacht Carefree.

Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly,
wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray
and green, brown and dun, hard and
crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its
helm stood someone, for even in that last
dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a
ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but
could not, brake the dizzy fall.

For an instant Greg’s eyes, stingingly
blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a
wee black mote dancing from the bowels of
the Carefree; a mote that might be an-
other skiff like their own. But he could not
be sure, and then the Carefree was acceler-
ating with such violence and speed that the
eye could see it only as a flaming silver
lance against the ugly earth-carcase be-
neath, and then it struck and a carmine
bud of flame burst and flowered for an
instant, and that was all. . . .

And Greg Malcolm turned from the
perilens, shaken.

Hannigan said, “It’s over?” and Greg
nodded.

Hannigan said, “The other skiffs? Did

they break free, or were they caught?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see for sure.”
“You must have seen. Are we the only
ones ?”

“I couldn’t see for sure. Maybe. May-
be not.”

Then a body scrambled forward, press-
ing through the tightness of other huddled
bodies, and there was a hand upon his
elbow. “I’ll take over now, Malcolm.”

I T WAS' Ralph Breadon. Gregory
looked at him slowly, uncomprehend-
ingly at first. His hand was reluctant to
leave the guiding-gear of the small ship
which was, now, all that remained to them
of civilization and civilization’s wondrous
accomplishments. He had not realized
until this moment that for a while . . . for
a short, eager, pulse-quickening while . . .
on his alertness, in his hands, had de-
pended the destinies of ten men and women.
But he knew, suddenly and completely, that
it was for this single moment hiS whole
lifetime had waited. It was for this brief
moment of command that some intuition,
some instinct greater than knowledge, had
prepared him. This was why he, an Earth-
lubber, had studied astrogation, made a
hobby of the empire of the stars. That he
might be fitted to command when all others
failed. And now —

And now the moment was past, and he
was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild,
lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Fos-
ter Andrews. And the man at his side
was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentle-
man sportsman, trained pilot. And in
Malcolm the habit of obedience was
strong. . . .

“Very well, sir,” he said. And he turtied
over the controls.

What happened then was unfortunate.
It might just as well have happened to
Malcolm, though afterward no one could
ever say with certainty. However that was,
either by carelessness or malfortune or
inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck
again at the little party on the life-skiff.
At the instant Breadon’s hand seized the
controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though
struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing
motors choked and snarled in a high, rising
crescendo of torment that lost itself in
supersonic heights, and the ship that had
been drifting easily and under control to

78 PLANET

the planet beneath now dipped viciously.

The misfortune was that too many hud-
dled in the tiny space understood the oper-
ation of the life-skiff, and what must be
done instantly. And that neither pilot
was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon’s
hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did
Malcolm’s — and across both their bodies
came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, search-
ing the controls.

In the scramble someone’s sleeve brushed
the banks of control-keys. The motors,
killed, soughed into silence. The ship
rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his
voice a strange harshness in his ears ;
Breadon cursed ; one of the women bleated
fearfully.

Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all
hands from the controls but his own. And
the man was not without courage. For all
could see plainly, in the illumined perilens,
how near to swift death that moment of
uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which
an instant before had been high in the
stratosphere of this unknown planet . . .
or satellite or whatever it might be . . .
was now flashing toward hard ground at
lightning speed.

O NLY a miracle, Greg knew, could
save them now. An impulse spun
his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews.
There was no fear in her eyes. Just a
hotness and an inexplicable anger. Be-
side her was the other girl, the maid, ’Tina ;
she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were
clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes
were wide and anxious, but she did not
cry out.

Only a miracle could save them now.
But Breadon’s hands performed that mir-
acle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands.
A stud here ... a lever there ... a swift
wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face
twisted back over his shoulder, and his
straining lips pulled taut and bloodless
away from his teeth. “Hold tight, folks!
We’re going to botmce — ”

Then they struck!

But they struck glancingly, as Breadon
had hoped, and planned for, and gambled
on. They struck and bounced. The frail
craft shivered and groaned in metal agony,
jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,
settled, nosed over and rocked to a stand-
still. Somewhere forward something

STORIES

snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress;
somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clang-
ing of broken gear trailing behind them.
But they were safe.

Breath, held so long that he could not
remember its inhalation, escaped Greg’s
lungs in a long sigh. “Nice work, Mr.
Breadon!’’ he cried. “Oh, nice work!”

But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon
turned on him.

“It would have been better work, Mal-
colm, if you’d kept your damned hands off
the controls! Now see what you’ve done?
Smashed up our skiff ! Our only — ’’

“He didn’t do it !’’ piped the shrill voice
of Tommy O’Doul. “You done it your-
self, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught
the switch.”

“Quiet !” Breadon, cheeks flushed,
reached out smartly, stilled the youngster’s
defense with a swift, ungentle slap. “And
you, Malcolm — after this, do as you’re told,
and don’t try to assume responsibilities too
great for you. All right, everybody. Let’s
get out and see how bad the damage is.”

Instinctively Greg had surged a half step
forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy.
Now old habit and common-sense halted
him. He’s overwrought, he reasoned.
We’re all excited and on edge. We’ve
been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In
a little while we’ll all be back to nonnal.

He said quietly, “Very well, Mr.
Breadon.” And he climbed from the
broken skiff.

H annigan said, “Looks bad, don’t
it?”

“Very,” said Malcolm. He fingered a
shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from
the stern of the skiff. “Not hopeless,
though. There should be an acetylene
torch in the tool locker. With that — ”
“You ought to of poked him,” said
Hannigan.

“What? Oh, you mean — ?”

“Yeah. The kid was right, you know.
He done it.”

“His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an
accident,” said Greg. “It could have hap-
pened to anyone. And he made a go^
landing. Considering everything. Any-
how — ” Again he was Gregory Malcolm,
serious-faced, efficient secretary. “Any-
how, we have been thrust into an extu^mely
precarious circumstance. It would be silly

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 79

to take umbrage at a man’s nervous anger.
We must have no quarreling, no bicker-
ing

“Umbrage!” snorted Sparks. “Bicker-
ing! They’re big words. I ain’t sure I
know what they mean. I ain’t exactly sure
they mean anything.” He glanced at Greg
oddly. “You’re a queer jasper, Malcolm.
Back there on the ship, I figured you for a
sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the
boss. And then in the show-down, you
come through like a movie hero — for a little
while. Then you let that Breadon guy give
you the spur without a squawk — ”

Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed
spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly,
“Our situation is grave. There must be
no bickering.”

“Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do
you call that?”

Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb
toward the group from which they were
separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg
and Sparks had moved to make a careful
examination of their damaged craft. The
others, more or less under the direction
of Breadon, were making gestures toward
removing certain necessaries from the skiff.
Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they
were, had already embroiled them in
argument.

The gist of their argument, so far as
Greg Malcolm could determine, was that
everyone wanted “something” to be done,
but no two could agree tis to just what that
something was, and no one seemed to have
any bursting desire to participate in actual
physical labor.

J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his
former panic and confusion fled, was
planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few
yards from the open port of the life-skiff,
barking impatient orders at little Tommy
O’Doul who — as Greg watched — stumbled
from the port bearing a huge armload of
edibles.

’Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of mo-
tion, trying to administer to the complaints
and demands of Mrs. Andrews (w'hose im-
maculate hair-do had suffered in the fre-
netic minutes of their flight) and Crystal
Andrews (who knew perfectly well there
were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss
Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-
food and a can-opener immediately, and

look at poor Cuddles, momsy’s ’ittle pet
was so hungry) !

Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that
it was nonsense to leave the warmth and
security of the skiff anyway, and he wished
he had a drink, while the harassed, self-ap-
pointed commander of the refugee corps
was shouting at whomever happened, at.
any given moment, to capture his divided
and completely frantic attention. His or-
ders were masterpieces of confusion, de-
veloping around one premise that fire
castaway crew should immediately set up
a camp. Where, how, or with what non-
existent equipment, Breadon did not ven-
ture to say.

“You see what I mean?” demanded
Sparks disgustedly.

G reg MALCOLM saw. He also saw
other things. That their landing-
spot, while excellent for its purpose, was
not by any manner of means an ideal camp-
site. It was a small, flat basin of sandy
soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His
gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly
on their greenness, upon the multitude of
dark pock-marks dotting them. These
caves, were they not the habitations of po-
tential enemies, might well become the
sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.

He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver
sheering the face of the northern hills.
His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other
things —

He nodded. He knew, now, where they
were. Or approximately. There was but
one planet in the solar system which boasted
such a phenomenon. The apparent dis-
tance of the Sun, judged by its dimin-
ished disc, argued his judgment to be cor-
rect. The fact that they had surged
through an atmospheric belt for some length
of time before finally meeting with disaster,
“Titan,” he said. “Hyperion possibly.
But probably Titan.”

Sparks’ gaze, following Greg’s upward,
contracted in an expression of dismay,
“Dirty cow ! You mean that’s where we
are?” ‘

“I believe so. There’s Saturn, our
mother planet, looming above us as large
as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here
is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000
mile diameter. That, combined with the

80 PLANET

Saturnian tractile constant, would give us
a strong pull.”

Sparks wailed, “But Titan ! Great morn-
ing, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan !
There ain’t no mines here, no colonies,
no — ” He stopped suddenly, his eyes widen-
ing get farther. “And, hey — this place is
dangerous! There are — ”

“I know it,” said Greg swiftly, quietly.
“Shut up. Sparks. No use telling the
others. If they don’t guess it themselves,
what they don’t know won’t alarm them.
We’ve got to do something, though. Get
ourselves organized into a defensive com-
munity. That’s the only way — ”

Ralph Breadon’s sharp, dictatorial voice
interrupted him. “Well, Malcolm, stop sol-
diering and make yourself useful!”

And J. Foster, not to have his authority
usurped, supplemented the order. “Yes,
Malcolm, let’s get going ! No time for day-
dreaming, my man. We want action!”

Sparks said, “Maybe you’ll get it now,
fatty !” under his breath, and looked at
Malcolm hopefully. But his companion
merely nodded, moved forward toward the
others, quietly obedient to the command.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Hannigan groaned and followed him.

Ill

B READON said, “All right. Tommy,
dump them here. I have a few words
to say.” He glanced about him pompously.
“Now, folks, naturally we want to get
away from here as soon as possible. There-
fore I delegate you. Sparks, to immediately
get a message off. An SOS to the nearest
space cruiser.”

Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleas-
ant grin He took his time answering. He
spat thoughtfully on the ground before
him, lifted his head. He said, “A mes-
sage, huh?”

“That’s what I. said.”

“And what’ll I send it with?” drawled
Sparks. “Tom-toms?”

Breadon flushed darkly.

“I believe the life-skiff was equipped
with a radio? And theoretically you are a
radio operator?”

“Finest radio money can buy!” inter-
polated J. Foster Andrews proudly. “Put
a million credits into the Carefree. Best
equipment throughout.”

STORIES

Sparks looked from one to another of
them, grinned insolently. “You’re both
right. I aw a radio operator, and there
was a radio. But we crashed, remember?
On account of some dope’s sleeve got
caught in the master switch — ”

“That will do !” snapped Breadon angrily.
He stared at the bandy-legged little red-
head. “You mean the radio was broken?”

“It wasn’t helped none. The tubes was
made out of glass, and glass don’t bounce
so good.”

Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, “Sparks,
can’t you fix it?”

“Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes.
Maybe not in five years. I won’t know till
I get going on it.”

Breadon frowned.

“I’ll handle this, Malcolm,” he crisped.
Again to the radioman, “Well, you get to
work on it immediately. And as soon as
you get it fixed, send out an SOS' advis-
ing the patrol where we are — ”

“Speaking of which,” insinuated Sparks,
“where are we?”

Breadon glared at him wrathfully.

“Why — ^why on one of the satellites of
Saturn, of course. Any fool can see that !”

“O.Q. But does any fool know which
one? Or shall I tell you it’s Titan? And
when you know that, then what? Titan
wasn’t named that on account of it was a
pimple. It’s a big place. What’ll I tell
the Patrol? SOS. Stranded in the middle
of we-don’t-know-wherc, somewhere on Ti-
tan, inaybe. They’ll be hunting for us till
w'e’ve got whiskers down to our knees.”

Breadon’s irate look vanished. He looked
stricken. He said, “I — I don’t know. We
have a compass — ”

Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who
entered into the conversation. He had
been toying, almost absentmindedly, with
a funnel taken from the skiff’s stores. Into
this he had poured a small portion of water;
his right forefinger was pressed to the
bottom of the tube, closing it. He said, “I
can answer part of that question now.
Enough to cut the search in half, anyway.
We’re in the northern hemisphere of the
satellite.”

Maud Andrews looked at him sharply
as if noticing him for the first time in her
life.

“How,” she asked, “did you know that,
Malcolm ?”

WANDEREttS OF THE WOLF mOON 81

G reg said, “Watch this.” He re-
leased his finger at the base of the
funnel gently, carefully, taking care not to
shake it. The captured water swirled and
trickled through the opening. Greg said,
“Notice the direction in which the water
whirlpools? Clockwise. On the northern
hemisphere of any normally revolving
heavenly body, water released from a ba-
sin, funnel, container of any sort, swirls
in that direction. In the southern hemisphere
it swirls counter-clockwise. Maybe you’ve
noticed in bathtubs, or — ”

Breadon said impatiently, “Never mind
the speeches, Malcolm. A very clever bit
of reasoning — if it’s true. Do you think
you can figure out our exact latitude and
longitude from that?”

Greg met his gaze levelly.

“Not from that,” he said, “nor from
anything else. Perhaps you’ve forgotten
that latitude and longitude are artificial
inventions of man’s, based in one case on
an imaginary ‘equator,’ and in the other on
an arbitrarily appointed ‘line,’ like Green-
wich.

“But I believe I can approximate our
position and state it in such a way as to
cut to a minimum the time of any search
that might be made for us. That is, if a
space patrol ever comes close enough to
get within range of Sparks’ radio.”

“When,” said Sparks, “and if I get it
fixed.”

“When,” said Malcolm confidently, “you
get it fixed.”

Breadon gave in with as good grace as
he could muster.

“Well, all right,” he conceded grudgingly.
“We’ll let that rest for now. Meanwhile,
it is apparent that we can’t escape Titan —
or wherever we are — immediately. That
being the case, our first task will be to set
up a camp. This is as good a spot as any.
We’ll stay right here by the ship. We’ll
use the ship to sleep in at nights — ”

Greg coughed apologetically. “Mr.
Breadon — ”

“Well, what now? More funnels, Mal-
colm ?”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir — I don’t be-
lieve it wise to make camp here. Nor to
use the skiff for sleeping purposes.”

“And why not, my man?” That was J.
Foster.

6 — Planet — Spring

“The conservation of what little fuel
and power, we have, for one thing,” said
Greg. “Mr. Breadon’s idea of using the
skiff to sleep in was undoubtedly based on
the^plan of using the heating units. That
we must not do. The time may come when
we will need the skiff again, badly. We
must save its fuel and electro-motors.

“And as for making camp here beside
the ship — ”

He hesitated. Crystal Andrews, hen
voice a trifle edged, as had been that of
her father, prodded him for reply.

“Well?” she demanded. “Go on, Mal-
colm !”

“It wouldn’t be safe. Miss. This is an
exposed and vulnerable spot. Titan has —
dangerous denizens.” The words came re-
luctantly. “It would be much safer to
take refuge in the hills. In one of those
caves up there.”

Crystal gasped, “Caves ! Us — living in
a cave! Ridiculous!” J. Foster echoed
her words vehemently. Breadon laughed
curtly; Mrs. Andrews made a gesture of
repugnance with a slim, pale, exquisitely
manicured hand. Bert Andrews snorted.
Of the tycoon’s family, only Maud An-
drews showed any inclination to heed the
secretary’s suggestion. Her old eyes glinted
shrewdly; her head made the ghost of a
pleased nod.

B ut others more openly approved
his plan. The maid, ’Tina, watching
Malcolm with curious attentiveness, nod-
ded and said, “That is wise. I have heard
tales about Titan and its — its denizens.”
Tommy O’Doul grinned delightedly. He
said, “Caves ! Boy, caves ! Old-time stuff,
huh, Greg?” And Sparks Hannigan had
said, “That’s right, folks! And it’s past
noon now. Might as well get going right
away so’s we can get settled before dark.
Right, Greg?”

And yet again there was the counter-
play, the balance of Breadon’s wealth,
Breadon’s name and Breadon’s accustomed
authority to the calm, sane logic of the
slim young secretary. Breadon’s curt
laugh changed to something definitely an-
tagonistic ; his words sheered the mut-
tering like a keen blade.

“Very interesting, Malcolm! But
wholly impractical and completely absurd.
We will remain here. And now — ” He

82 PLANET

glanced at the high-riding sun. “And now
I think we should eat before setting up our
camp. Tommy, Hannigan — bring the elec-
tro-stove from the skiff. ’Tina, prepare
lunch. We’ll pursue a more intelligent
discussion of our situation on full stomachs.
Malcolm, bring cases from the skiff. We’ll
build a rough table out here in the open.”

He scowled impatiently, authoritatively
about the strangely silent group.

IV

T THAT MOMENT Gregory Mal-
colm realized what he must do. It
was not a pleasant realization. Greg Mal-
colm was an easy-going, a peaceful, a
placid man. The secretarial type. Sparks
had called him a — what was it ? — a “stuffed
shirt.” Never, save in rare moments of
dreamful imagining, had Greg ventured to
impress his opinions, his will, upon the
desires of fellow men.

But he, of all those now surrounding
him, seemed to understand, fully and com-
pletely, the crisis which now faced their
refugee group. And he — it was made ap-
parent to him by the pompousness of Foster
Andrews, by the mulish petulance of Bert
Andrews, by the aloof hauteur of Crystal
and Mrs. Andrews, by the suicidal “orders”
just given by Ralph Breadon — ^he alone
was, in this moment of need, capable of
deciding the destinies of the Earth-exiles.

J. Foster Andrews had the acumen and
common-sense to lead them — ^but he had
not the requisite knowledge. Breadon had
the training, the space-experience — ^but he
lacked solid horse-sense, and his decisions
were too strongly flavored by his own savor
of self-importance. Yet if they, ten hu-
mans, were to exist for a week ... a
month ... a year . . . until help reached
them, someone must command And he,
Gregory Malcolm, was the only one capable
of taking into his hands the reins of ruler-
ship.

It was a knowledge at once heady, in-
toxicating and frightening. But — there it
was! It had to be faced. And Greg
moved, grimly but methodically, to the
accomplishment of that which he deemed
necessary. He halted the radioman with
a gesture.

“Wait a minute. Sparks ! Tommy, wait !

STORIES

’Tina!” And he faced Breadon firmly.
“We are not going to do that, Mr.
Breadon,” he said. “It would not be wise.
We are not going to do it.”

Breadon’s brown features darkened with
swift anger.

“What? What’s this?”

And J. Foster Andrews waddled for-
ward, puffing irate astonishment. “Here,
here, Malcolm I What do you mean ? This
is — hrrumph ! — blasted impertinence, sir !
Insubordination I”

Malcolm held his ground, his pale
cheeks oddly flushed.

“We are not going to do these things,”
he repeated slowly, definitely. “Brea-
don — ” It did not occur to him that
unconsciously he had abandoned the re-
spectful, formal “Mr.” which heretofore
he had never ommitted. “Breadon, your
orders clearly indicate that you have not
in any way grasped the full implications
of our plight.

“I have already warned that we should
not make needless use of our limited fuel
and power reserves. Yet you’ve told
Tommy to bring the electro-stove. I have
hinted that there are dangerous antag-
onists on Titan, yet you wish boldly to
tempt attack by cooking and eating here
on this exposed plain in broad daylight.
Common sense should advise you of the
folly of eating what few food stores we
hold in reserve, yet you calmly command
the preparation of a full and wasteful
meal.”

He did not make mention of the other,
perhaps irrelevant but nonetheless rankling
detail. That never once had Breadon of-
fered to help in these doings, nor had any
member of the Andrews clan volunteered
to assist ; that the physical labor had arbi-
trarily been assigned to those of lesser
caste — himself, Hannigan, young Tommy,
’Tina.

“Therefore,” he continued doggedly, “I,
for one, am refusing to obey your orders.
I do so because I must. Call it ‘insubordi-
nation’ if you wish, Andrews — ” The
older man spluttered incoherently, mauve-
jo wled. “ — but I would call it the ‘will-to-
exist.’ The law of survival. I mean to
survive on this unknown, hostile planet.
That can’t be done if we squander re-
sources as Breadon apparently means to.”

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 83

A MOMENT of tight silence answered
his outburst. A slow, awkward move-
ment stirred through the little group. It
was, Greg sensed, a movement of align-
ment. He could sense, rather than see,
the unconscious coalition of his sympathiz-
ers behind him ; could see, without sensing,
the outraged drawing-together of the An-
drews husband and wife, fille and fils, be-
side Breadon. One there was whose
bright, intent eyes were clouded with un-
certainty. Maud Andrews. Then, as if
irresistibly drawn by the bonds of blood,
she too looked to Breadon as her spokes-
man.

Breadon’s voice was a thick flame of
wrath.

“So that’s the way it is, eh, Malcolm!
Well, this had to come sooner or later.
Might as well have it over with right now.
Get the glasses off, my pale young friend 1
One leader is all we’ll have around herel’’
He stepped forward, bigger, browner,
heavier than Malcolm. There was a rus-
tle behind Greg; Sparks had stepped to
his side, was pressing something into his
hand.

“This’ll make him behave, Greg.’’

“Put it away!’’ said Greg coldly. “We’ll
have better use for firearms later on. I’ll
handle this the way Breadon wants.”
Slowly, painstakingly, he removed his
plasta-rimmed glasses, slipped them in a
Incite case, slid the case into a pocket, re-
moved his trimly cut double-breasted busi-
ness coat, handed it to the grumbling little
redhead.

“But look — ” growled Sparks. Then
stopped. There was a newness about Greg
Malcolm that stopped him. Wtih the gog-
gles removed, he thought dimly, Malcolm’s
eyes looked different. Less soft and
meeky-mosey. They were like — sort of
like chunks of grey flint. And Greg wasn’t
as skinny as he had looked, now that you
saw him with his coat off. He was lean,
yes — but there was a greyhound whippi-
ness to his leanness; a tight, spring-coiled
sort of strength.

“Well?” said Greg. “You’re ready,
Breadon ?”

Breadon’s answer was a sudden, rush-
ing charge. One of the women gasped;
there came the whipping splat of flesh
striking flesh, then all noises muted save
the sound of two men meeting in face-to-

face conflict. Breadon’s left jarred Greg
back, his right swung wide and hard to
put a swift end to the dispute —

But found no target. For leanly, deftly,
with panther like swiftness, Greg was out
from under the blow; his own left, prob-
ing sharply, flicked once . . . twice . . .
again into his antagonist’s face, jarring
Breadon, shocking, stunning him, halting
his bull-like rush and jolting him back on
his heels.

Maddened, Breadon whirled, seeking
this will-o-the-wisp whose jabbing lefts
stung like salt in an open wound. He
growled something that was never com-
pleted, for knuckles bruised the word
against his lips. Blood sprang, saline and
hot in his mouth; the taste of it edged his
rage to inchoate blindness, he flailed out
recklessly, forgetful of anything he had
previously known about fighting.

And that was his undoing. Against his
bulky charge, Greg could do nothing but
fight the kind of fleeting defensive battle
he had learned in long hours at the gym-
nasium. A maddened warrior like this was
a different matter, though; he was a vul-
nerable fighter.

Calmly and with infinite assurance, Greg
stepped inside Breadon’s swinging arms,
beneath his faulty guard. His right hand
came up once, sharply, to Breadon’s jaw.
The big man spluttered pink spray, lifted
his arms. Again Greg lashed out with his
left, this time to the belly ; Breadon gasped
and his mouth remained open, sagging.

Like the whipping length of a python,
Malcolm threw that lean, deadly-sure right
again — this time squarely to the other
man’s jaw at the spot where jawbone meets
the ear. The blow cracked in the dull,
astonished silence like the chunk of a heart-
biting axe on timber. Breadon straight-
ened slowly, numbly, in a meaningless re-
flex. The fire went out of his eyes; their
brownness dulled like sun-faded velvet.
Then he fell. As a tall building might fall.
Crumpling . . . the knees folding first, the
body sagging, the shoulders, the head help-
less and rolling. In sections. He rolled
once and lay still.

Sparks Hannigan said, “Gawddle-
mighty !” His voice was feeble, awestruck.

Greg Malcolm’s fists, falling to his sides,
uncoiled reluctantly. As if they had
gripped the fiery baton of his anger, the

84 PLANET

battle-urge slipped from him with their
unclenching. He drew a deep breath to
steady his ragged breathing, nodded to
the wide-eyed ’Tina.

“Take care of him,” he said. “Water.
He’ll be all right in a minute.” He faced
the others, his manner an odd mixture of
apology and aggressiveness. “Breadon
said there could be but one in command,”
he said. “Let us hope that is definitely
settled. For all time. And now I will
ask all of you to help. Our first step will
be to strip the skiif of the equipment we
may need and carry it into the hills. In
one of those caves we will make our head-
quarters.”

But the fight was to have its aftermath.
Crystal Andrews it was who burst from
the little knot before him to kneel at her
fiances side, taking Breadon’s head in her
arms, glaring rage and hot defiance at
Greg.

“With you?” she cried. “With you,
you— cheap, upstart bully? Not in a mil-
lion years ! Ralph — Ralph, dear, are you
all right? Did he hurt you?”

She jerked the water-soaked handker-
chief from the maid’s hands, pressed its
coolness to Breadon’s sand-bruised fore-
head. Breadon’s eyes opened, dazed at
first, then full of awareness, sultry, indig-
nant, incredulous. He moved to get on his
feet again. Greg stared at him coldly.

“Get up if you want to, Breadon. But
don’t get up fighting!”

Hannigan chuckled. “He ain’t hurt
much. Just his conceit. It’s punched full
of right and left hand wallops.”

“That will do. Sparks!” snapped Greg.
He looked at the others, replacing his
glasses carefully, a vague sorrow in his
eyes, defeat in his voice despite his vic-
tory. “You all feel that way? You still
refuse — ?”

Crystal Andrews’ cried out, “Talk!
Talk! Will you stop talking and go? Go to
the hills if you want to. Leave us in
peace. We don’t want you and don’t need
you. Go to the hills — and good riddance
to you!”

The tiny gimlet of hurt that lay some-
where deep inside of Greg twisted once
more at her words, snapped, became sud-
denly cold and bitter. His jaw set. He
nodded to Sparks.

“Very well. If that’s your desire.

STORIES

Sparks, there are four of us, six of them.
Take an inventory of all equipment and
supplies in the skiff. We will take exactly
four-tenths of everything . . . fuel, power
units, food, water . . . everything. Get
going. I’ll help you directly.”

Sparks said, “The radio?”

“We’ll take that. You’re the only one
capable of repairing it. We’ll save them
in spite of themselves. If we can.”

Sparks said, “Aye, sir ! Come on,
Tommy. ’Tina.” He started toward the
crashed skiflf. Greg hesitated, feeling the
desire to say something, to make one final
plea, not knowing what to say or how to say
it, restrained by the yet cold anger etched
on his heart by Crystal’s scorn. Then he
too turned to help. A strident voice halted
him.

“Just a moment, young man!”

“Yes, Miss Andrews?”

Maud Andrews, Cuddles firmly cradled
to her ample bosom, left her brother’s side
and marched toward the life-skiff.

“Tell Sparks to make that a fifty-fifty
division,” she said. “There will be five of
us in the hills.”

E nid Andrews bleated faintly.

Crystal, still kneeling, stared at her
aunt incredulously. J. Foster Andrews
vented his indignation in a sudden, blus-
tering roar. “Maud! Don’t be a blasted
idiot! Come back here this minute!”

Maud Andrews continued to surge inex-
orably forward.

“I’m not,” she grunted, “being an idiot !
It’s you who are, my dear, fat, dimwitted
brother ! I’m a selfish, pampered old fool,
but I know common-sense when I hear it,
and I know a man when I see one. Fur-
thermore, silly as you may think it, I have
a ridiculous desire to keep on living. I
may have to work to do that, and I’m not
overly fond of work, but if Mr. Malcolm
will have me — ?”

“Just plain ‘Malcolm,’ Miss Andrews,”
said Greg gravely, gratefully. “And I’m
happy you see it my way.”

“Tut! I’m not doing you a favor, Mal-
colm! I’m just looking out for myself,
as I always do. Well, Sparks, don’t stand
there yawping like my thick-pated brother !
What can I do to help?”

She waddled away. Greg glanced hope-
fully at those still waiting, immobile.

WANDEItERS OF

“Won’t you — ” he began, “Won’t the
rest of you —

The eyes that met his were glacial. Bert
Andrews, thick-lipped and bridling, snarled
disdain. “The hell with you, Malcolm!
The sooner you get out of here, the bet-
ter!”

Greg said, “We’ll let you know where
to find us. If you should — should need
us, just call.”

“We won’t need you.” That was Crys-
tal, coldly.

“I hope you won’t,” said Greg. “I sin-
cerely hope you won’t. .

V

PARKS HANNIGAN came out grin-
ning. He said, “This one looks like
the business, Greg. Plenty of room. Dry
and warm. It’s even got a natural flue-
vent so’s we can have a fireplace inside.”

Greg nodded, pleased.

“Sounds good. I was beginning to think
we’d never find a suitable cave. This one’s
within easy reach of that spring, too; that
solves the fresh water problem. Well, we
might as well get settled. Getting toward
evening.”

’Tina glanced at the sky, surprised. “So
soon? I didn’t know it had taken us so
long. It seems as if only a few hours ago
it was noon.”

“It was,” grinned Greg. “Titan’s days
are shorter than Earth’s. Its diameter is
only about 3,000 miles. By Earth measure-
ments you’d say Titan had a sixteen hour
day.”

“And the ‘day,’ ” grumbled Sparks,
“ain’t none too bright at that. On account
of we’re so far from the Sun.”

“You haven’t seen the worst of it. Right
now we’re on the Sun side of Saturn. We
revolve about our primary once every 500-
odd hours. Since Saturn is so large, when
we are to the lee of it, it eclipses us en-
tirely. So for about five days every Titan
‘month’ we suffer a complete blackout.

“And that — ” Greg sobered. “That is
another reason the others should dig into
a good warm cave. It gets plenty cold
during that eclipse period. An open camp
on an exposed plain — ” He shook his
head.

Maud Andrews said, “I can’t under-
stand why this satellite is habitable at all.

THE WOLF MOON 85

I was under the impression that Saturn is
a frozen planet.” /

“It is. Its surface temperature is ap-
proximately 300° below zero, Fahrenheit.
But the warmth of its numerous satellites
is one of the astonishing discoveries made
by the early space explorers, fifty or sixty
years ago. Scientists have not yet ex-
plained the matter satisfactorily. Some
say the tremendous mass of Saturn, the
waves of atmospherics set up by its swirl-
ing motion and the ‘grindstone’ of its ring,
form an electronic barrier-shield for the
satellites. Still others believe that frigid
Saturn acts as a gigantic mirror or solar
reflector for its children.”

“But Greg — ” That was Tommy O’Doul.
“Why ain’t there any colonies here if the
climate’s O.Q. ? Men live on Venus, where
it’s hot as billy-be-hanged, and on UranuSj
which is nothing but a ball of ice, and on
a bunch of cold, airless asteroids — ”

“Economics, Tommy. The simple, sin-
gle dictator of mankind’s every venture.
Venus has valuable vegetation, Uranus and
the asteroids have important metals that
can’t be duplicated in Earth’s laboratories,
the asteroids have rare ore deposits. There
is not — or at least there has not as yet been
discovered — anything native to Titan that
cannot be mined or made elsewhere more
cheaply, more easily. Some day man’s
ever-expanding frontiers will claim this
satellite as a colony, too. But now that
the entire universe is open to man, the
human race can increase a millionfold and
still allow every soul more lebensraum than
he can possibly use.”

Sparks Hannigan gazed at him admir-
ingly.

“It’s stoo-pendous I” he said.

“Titan? Not any more so than — ”

“Not Titan. You. You know every-
thing, don’t you? Pal — ” Sparks shook
his head. “I sure had you figgered wrong.
I thought you was a soft-soaping dope.
So then you got us off the Carefree onto
the skiff, cooled Breadon like a herring,
declared yourself It and made us like it — ”

Greg said, “Nonsense! I just happened
to — Oh, nonsense! Shall we go into our
new home?” But he flushed.

By evening — Titan’s short, grey shad-
owed evening, the only logical unit of
duration by which they could live so

PLANET STOiUES

86

long as they remained captive here — ^their
new cave home began to take on some
semblance of lived-inness.

Vegetation was abundant on the hill-
sides. Sparks and Tommy had gathered
heaps of dry faggots while Greg built a
crude stone fire place underneath the flue-
vent Sparks had reported; shortly there-
after the women had a cheerful blaze
crackling on the hearth, and mingled with
its grateful warmth was the odor of a
savory stew, welcome scent to the nostrils
of five who had worked long and hard
in gathering the vegetables that had gone
into that potage.

“Eat nothing," Greg had warned, “dig
nothing that does not show signs of hav-
ing been eaten, dug or picked by wild ani-
mals. Later we can make chemical analy-
sis of dubious foods to determine their
edibility. For the present we will depend
on the most certain test, the acceptance by
other flesh-and-blood creatures.”

He had also permitted that a single can
of bouillon concentrate be used in the
stew. “For flavoring. There is so little
food in reserve that we must save it against
the cold, dark days when we can’t get out
to gather supplies. Later on we’ll have
fresh meat."

He looked thoughtfully at Cuddles,
sniffing, yapping excitedly by the fireplace,
and Maud Andrews, with a swift, maternal
gesture, swept the poodle into her arms
and glared at him belligerently.

“Oh, no you don’t ! You’ll eat me first !’’

“I wasn’t thinking of that," said Greg
indignantly. “I had something else in
mind. A poodle, eh ? Hmmm !’’

’Tina and young Tommy came into the
cave, arms full of fresh and fragrant
ferns which they dumped beside a wall.
Greg, glancing at them, could not curb his
astonishment at the overwhelmingly sud-
den change that had come over ’Tina. Dur-
ing the Carefree’s cruise, during the years
he had worked for old J. Foster, he had
seen the girl a thousand times — but never,
he discovered now, really seen her before!
Always she had been a dim, dusty figure
in the background. A foil for the spoiled,
immaculate perfection of Enid Andrews,
the glittering, heart-stopping beauty of
Crystal.

Now, viewed as a woman and a com-

rade, he was aware that she was lovely
herself. Slim as a rush, and yielding-
strong as that same wild water-flower;
dark-eyed; hair as the Martian midnight
with live lights glinting in it, too, as the
stars glinted over the Martian deserts;
soft, white hands, graceful but capable —

But here! he thought, what nonsense
was this? He had work to do. And this
was no time for weaving poetic cadences
about a girl who was practically a total
stranger !

Now she laughed, gaily, her very laugh-
ter seeming to burst from a heart happy
with newfound freedom. And she said,
“It was just as you said, Greg. We found
the ferns down by the spring. Did we
bring enough of them?"

Greg said, “Enough for tonight. They’ll
make comfortable beds. Later on Sparks
and I will build real beds for all of us.
Thank goodness there was a tool-chest on
the skiff. You folks ready to eat?"

Hannigan lifted his nose from the fire-
place.

“Ready! I been ready for a half hour,
and my stummick’s been ready for a
week!”

And somehow it didn’t seem at all sur-
prising to Greg that Maud Andrews should
be the one who, sleeves rolled up, face
flushed with hearth-heat, warmth and good
fellowship, seized the ladle, beat on the
side of the pot vigorously and bawled, in
what was far from a wealthy socialite’s
cultured tone, “Cc«ne and get it ! Come and
get it!”

S O, SOMEHOW, the first day was over
. . . and the second day, too . . . and
a week of Titan’s sixteen hour days slid
past so quickly that Greg could not truly
say where they had disappeared.

Duties, chores, at first chaotic became
matters of mere routine as one or another
of the little band took them on his own
shoulders. Maud Andrews, who on the
second day bluntly and surprisingly star-
tled everyone w'ith the pronunciamento
that henceforth there would be, “ — no more
of this ‘Miss Andrews’ stuff ; call me
‘Aunt Maud’; I’m old enought to have
mothered every last one of you I”, set her-
self up as cook, thus freeing ’Tina to take
care of the multitude of other household — ;

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 87

or cave-hold — duties. And an excellent
cook she turned out to be, performing
miracles with the odd, variegated samples
of produce brought to her by the rest of
the group.

Her once-aroused suspicion flared again
when Greg casually requested, one day,
permission to take Cuddles for a little
run in the woods. She clucked to her pet,
turned him over to Greg, but watchfully.

“I don’t know what you have in mind,
Greg Malcolm. But if you come back
here with any sinister looking pieces of
meat and no Cuddles — ”

“I’m hoping to come back,” confessed
Greg, “with both meat and Cuddles. He’s
a poodle, isn’t he? Well, he’s always been
a lap-dog to you, but I have an idea maybe
his heritage will overcome his habits when
I get him out into the woods. The poodle,
in its earliest beginnings, used to be a hunt-
ing dog, you know. It was bred and trained
especially for that purpose. Of course his
nose may have been ruined by being pam-
pered, but — ”

“My Cuddles,” exclaimed Aunt Maud,
“a hunting dog!” She looked horrified.

Greg said slyly, “I hope so. He wouldn’t
be the first member of this party to prove
his true worth beneath a thin veneer of
civilization.”

Aunt Maud’s cheeks were red, but it
might have been the warmth of the fire.
And maybe the wood-smoke made her
eyes shine like that, too. She pushed Greg
roughly.

“Oh, run along!” she ordered. “But
mind you bring him back unchanged!”

“Okay, Auntie,” Greg said.

Greg brought him back, but not un-
changed. For the poodle had, amazingly,
reverted to type, once set on the trail of
wild game. Greg carried back to the din-
ner table two small creatures, one vaguely
resembling a squirrel, one definitely allied
to the rabbit family, plunked them proudly
before his companions.

“Don’t give me credit. It was the purp.
He’s a humdinger. You should have seen
him tree that squirrel — or whatever it is!
And that rabbit-thing — ^he went scrambling
halfway down a warren after it! Didn’t
you, Slewfoot?”

The dog yerped happily. Aunt Maud
moaned.

“Slewfoot! Oh, my gracious! Cuddles,
come here to momsy-womsy wight away!
Did nassy-mans call him — ”

Cuddles made no move to obey. Greg
whistled, and the dog looked up. “Okay,
Slewfoot. Go to momma!” And the dog
pranced over to Aunt Maud. Greg grinned.
“I think he likes his new name better,” he
said.

Slewfoot yerped again in an ecstasy of
approval.

A nd so, gradually, life became easier
and smoother and happier for the
quintet of cave-dwellers. Beds took the
place of piled ferns, the woodpile towered
toward the cove roof against the days of
dark and cold which, according to Greg’s
computations, might be expected within
the next week or so, food was varied and
plentiful, and a needed food was supplied
when Tommy O’Doul marched triumph-
antly home with a bawling kid in his arms.
Sparks glared at him.

“Hey, youngster, what did you tote that
home for? We ain’t got no room for pets.
And that thing ain’t ripe to be et yet.”

Tommy said, “I had to bring it. It was
the only way I could make its mom follow
me. See ?”

And sure enough, a few yards away,
anxiously eying its captive offspring, was
a mother goat. Or something like a goat,
anyway. Sparks caught on them. A fly-
ing tackle and the camp had corraled its
first head of livestock. And from then
on there was milk.

And there were songs in the evening, and
card games and stories and compensations
for the long, hard tasks of the daytime.
Sparks labored on his radio set, though
without too much hope. “Smashed to hell
and gone, Greg. The tubes is the wust
part. I could jockey the wires around.
But glass — ”

Greg looked thoughtful. “I wonder,”
he said. “I wonder? Well — do what you
can with the metallic parts.”

So they waited and worked, and in some
dim corner of their minds continued to
hope for the release which all in some
vague fashion expected might come “some
day.” And their camaraderie was great
and wholesome, but there was a single sub-
ject they never mentioned. The other
quintet on the plain below. From their

88 PLANET

hillside eyrie they could see the other camp,
but by common consent they made no
effort to approach Breadon’s followers.
They had offered assistance and it had
been refused. They could do nothing more,
now, unless —

The unless came sooner than they ex-
pected. In the still of the night it came
in the dark, multi-mooned Saturnian night,
when Greg and his comrades were all
asleep in their bunks.

Greg woke with a strained feeling that
he could not at first identify. He only
knew, as a newly awakened sleeper dimly
knows, that something was amiss.

Then, as he listened, he heard it again.
The sound of a firing rifle. And the thin,
muted whisper of a cry from the clearing
below. A voice lifted in dismay.

With a start he was on his feet.

“Sparks!’'

Hannigan bounced from his blankets
like a redheaded ball of rubber. He was*
on his feet, scrubbing his eyes with the
backs of his hands, even before he knew
he was awake.

“Smatta? Whuzzup, Greg? Smatta?”

“Below!” roared Greg. “The party in
the valley — they’re in trouble of some
kind ! Get your gun and come on !”

^ VI

HE OTHERS were awake now.
Young Tommy was aquake with ex-
citement. He made a headlong dash for
the dry niche wherein were stored the arms
of the cavedwellers,. came back dragging
three rifles, handed one to Greg and an-
other to Hannigan.

“Let’s get going, Greg!” he yelped.
“Golly Moses, what do you think it is?
Animals, maybe? Or people? Gosh, let’s
get going!”

Greg took the spare rifle from him
firmly.

“We’ll go; you stay.” Then, in swift
contrition as the lad’s face fell measurable
inches. “Someone must guard the cave
while we’re gone. Tommy. 'Tina, build
up the fire and put a kettle on. Aunt
Maud—”

The old woman nooded grimly.

“I know. We’ll have hot water ready.
And bandages if you need ’em. Run
along !”

STORIES

How they ever got down that mountain-
side so quickly was ever afterward a mys-
tery to Greg, It was not exactly a pain-
less descent; their progress was a series
of runs, falls and buttock-bruising slides.
The footing, in broad daylight, wa pre-
carious at best; with only sallow Saturn
and the aura of the Rings to illumine their
way, it is a wonder they ever reached
the plain whole, in a single piece.

To add to their frenetic haste, in their
ears there rang the constant challenge of
gunfire. Crimson flashes lit the flatsward
below, once a whining slug, miserably
aimed, made both of them duck instinc-
tively as it shrilled somewhere over their
heads, sponged! against a rock behind them,
went ricochetting off into the darkness.

For now they were on level ground, and
mingled with the rattle of arms there was
another sound, the purling whimper of
tongueless, inhuman things astir and hun-
gry. Greg had once heard, on Earth, the
furtive night-passage of a jackal tribe;
the soft, half plaintive mewlings, the in-
cessant scrape of scrabbling paws, the am-
moniac stench of unwashed bodies. He
thought of this now, sharply, as he heard
these mutterings, smelled these rank odors,
strained his eyes to determine contours in
the darkling night.

Hannigan complained, “You see ’em,
Greg? It’s dark as a whale’s gut. I can’t
see nothing. What’ll we fire at? Are our
folks out in the open or in the skiff? We
might hit them if — ”

Greg said, “We’ll know in a minute.”
As they moved forward he tugged from his
belt the weapon he had been holding in
reserve ; the one such weapon found
amongst the stores of the life-skiff; one
he dared use but infrequently because once
its charge was exhausted he had no way
of replenishing it. “We should be near
enough now. Spot ’em quick and fire
while there's light!”

He jerked the trigger of the Haemholst
flame pistol. A writhing streamer of ochre
speared from its muzzle, lighting the plain
with a hot and eerie effulgence. Like a
fiery dart it blazed into the heart of the
pack surrounding the life-skiff. By its
lingering gleam Greg saw, with stomach-
churning repulsion, the creatures which
attacked.

Neither men nor wolves were they, but

WAKDEIUERS OF

a cruel parody on each. Lean, hair-matted
beast-things running on four legs, semi-
human of feature but with loose lips snarl-
ing back from yellow fangs ; fingered paws
long-clawed; indescribably evil and filthy;
the more inhuman because they embodied
so many physical attributes of Man.

Their pack must have numbered three
score, ranging from gray-pelted old ones
to skinny, ragged pups. Apparently they
had surprised the plateau party in the open,
allowing them no time to remove their
precious campstuffs, because the ground
about, around and before the skiff was
littered with a refuse of clothing, blankets,
supplies and equipment, cases and scraps
of food.

It was for this last that the wolf-men
had attacked, because even as the ochre
beam found their midst, they were scram-
bling hungrily about the campsite, avidly
gobbling all edible scraps they could nose
out. A few more aggressive ones scented
richer victuals; these it was who, despite
the sporadic fire from within the skiff,
snuffled, clawed and clamored at the port.

U NTIL the heat-beam struck them.

That put an end to their hunger and
their blood-lust. Like any wild woodland
animal, they had no fear of firearms; they
had no experience with them. Bullets that
struck, killed ; wolf-men untouched by bul-
lets had no way of associating hurt with
a sharp burst of sound and a strange, un-
familiar powder-scent.

But light — light that burned the hair and
scorched the flesh; light that spared not
one of them, but spread to dose all with
its heatful pain — that was something dif-
ferent! As the beam struck and spread,
snuffings changed to bestial screams of
fear and pain. Those nearest the beam’s
focal point felt no pain; they died in-
stantly, charred hulks that crisped and
sank, shapeless, to the ground. And from
these strangely altered, swiftly dead com-
panions the others fled, howling in shrill
alarm. Their footsteps were the dry patter
of leaves on shale; they broke and ran
wildly for the nether hills, tonguing shrill
ululations of hurt.

Then the door of the skiff opened cau-
tiously; dim light was a sliver, a crack, an
oblong. And the voice of J. Foster An-
drews quavered through the darkness to

THE WOLF nOON 89

their earsv It sounded shrill and afraid.
“Malcolm — is that you?’’

Sparks snorted derisively. “Ain’t that
awful ?’’ he demanded. “Is that you !’’ He
raised his voice. “Hell, no, it ain’t him!
It’s the Gray Lensman. Who’d you
think ?’’

“Shut up. Sparks!” Greg said, “Hold
your fire, the wolf-things are gone. We’re
coming in!”

A few moments later, he and Hannigan
were standing within the life-skiff.

G regory MALCOLM was twenty-
six years old. For more than eight
years he had been training himself to un-
dergo any and all emotions without change
of expression. That was, in his opinion,
a prime requisite for a man whose vocation
lay in a subordinate position. Now he
was grateful for learning that self-control,
and hoped his features were as granitelike
as he tried to make them. * He hoped his
eyes did not mirror the astonishment, the
shock, the numb dismay he felt when he
first glanced about the interior of that
cabin, and at those who stood before him.

It was incredible that in one short week
— one very short Titanian week — so great
a change could have been wrought in this
haughty quintet. His followers were
weathering the storm of catastrophe with-
out faltering, without any relaxation of
civilized standards. But Breadon’s —

He studied them, his quietude conceal-
ing the sudden heartsickness he knew, his
spectacles hiding the swift light of horror
in his eyes. The men had not shaved, it
was clear, since their crash-landing. Five
day stubble lay frostily on the jowls of
J. Foster Andrews, blackly on the cheeks
of his son and son-in-law to-be.

Nor did slovenliness end there. Beneath
the beard-growth, thfe skin of the men
looked dirty, dingy, sallow, as if they had
not washed for days. Their clothes were
equally soiled and sorry, Greg saw that
J. Foster’s nails were dull and broken
and grubby as the nails of a stevedore.

He rallied himself with an effort. These
were men. They had been working hard,
laboring. They could not stay immaculate.
They had been in a fight.

Then he looked at the women, and knew
that he made excuses vainly. It was even
more disillusioning to see what had hap-

90 PLANET

pened to Mrs. Andrews and Crystal in so
short a time.

Enid Andrews, fashion-plate of two con-
tinents, one of Earth’s smartest-dressed
women, thrice-named by fashion authori-
ties as Best Dressed Woman in the Solar
Confederation, hobbled sloppily about on
scuffed slippers, the heel of one of which
had broken off and not been replaced, so
that her posture sagged like a bag of meal,
split at a side-seam and sifting awkwardly
away. Her once elaborate coiffure was
a bird’s-nest of tangled braids which hung
unbraided, curls that sagged limply; has-
tily adjusted pins and combs clung inse-
curely to locks that, once pearl-silver, were
now clay-crusted gray.

Crystal — glamorous, pulse-stirring Crys-
tal — was in no better plight. Her gorgeous
ash-gold hair was pulled severely back
from a forehead which, Greg discovered,
was not nearly so broad and smooth and
high as he had imagined ; the artificial
color had rubbed from her cheeks, leaving
them lustreless and sullen; her lips — ever
rich, ripe, full — were pale and harsh-thin
and her mouth had tight, argumentative
lines at the corners. Her eyes were dark-
rimmed, weary, haggard. She was, thought
Greg with shocked comprehension, a tired
girl.

They were all tired. Tired and beaten
and dejected. All but Breadon who, even
now, was eyeing Greg defiantly, as if chal-
lenging him to comment on their condition.
He said, bitterly, “Thank you, Malcolm.
It was a most magnanamous gesture, com-
ing down from your hilltop castle to res-
cue us.”

G reg said nothing. He was looking
about the interior of the cabin, no-
ticing with incredulous disfavor the way
it had been abused, littered, left uncleaned.
Ashes, dirty dishes, scraps of cloth and
paper, fragments of cartons and dirt
tracked in from outside. . .

But Hannigan was not bound by Greg’s
compunctions. He spoke his mind frankly,
staring at the five skiff-dwellers with ob-
vious contempt in his eyes.

“If you’d ask me,” he said, “it’s damn
near time somebody come down and res-
cued you. Not from wolves, neither. From
yourselves. You all look like you’d been
drug through the butt end of a wringer.”

STORIES

“Well, we have,” began Bert Andrews
savagely. “We have been through — ”

“Shut up, you fool !” Breadon cut short
his plaint viciously ; blustered defiance that
was in itself an apology. “We’ve been
busy making a camp around here. We
haven’t had time to — ”

Sparks drawled, “Bud, we been busy
making a camp, too, in a place which wasn’t
already equipped with furnishings, like
your’n. And I think we. done a better job
of it. And in between times, we found
time to shave and bathe once in a while.”

Andrews flushed and said stiffly, “There
is a need of being provident with water.
Our supply is limited — ”

Greg said, “What? You mean you’ve
been using the water reserve from the life-
skiff?”

Enid Andrews answered. Excitedly.
Volubly. Almost at the point of tears.
She wrung her hands, and Greg could not
help noticing the anomaly of those at once
dirty and gem-bedecked fingers.

“We have. Oh, we have. There’s no
other water anywhere around here. Nor
food. We’ve been living on concentrates
. . . sickening, horrible stuff. . .”

“That’s not true !” flamed Breadon. “We
did have other food. I made bread. I
caught small game. I put out traps. There
would have been plenty of food except for
the wolf-men who raided tonight. They
broke our stove . . . stole my reserves. . .”

“Which,” mocked Sparks, “you conve-
niently left out for them to sniff and come
a-running after? Why don’t you call it
a day, Breadon? Admit you’re nothing
but a cocky Earthlubber at heart and — ”

“Why, you little whippersnapper !”
Breadon took a swift step forward. But
Greg had heard enough. He laid a re-
straining hand on the socialite’s arm. His
voice was as soothing, as pleading, as he
could make it.

“Haven’t we had enough of that al-
ready? Look here, Breadon, let’s let by-
gones be bygones. We’ve had our little
quarrel, now let’s act like sane and sensible
humans.

“You’re not situated here any too well.
You’ve admitted you’re not near a water
supply. The terrain is open to attack, as
is proven by tonight’s incident. You’ve
been, well — let’s say ‘unlucky.’

“On the other hand — we’ve been lucky.

WAKDEItERS OF THE WOLF JHOON 91

We’ve got a nice, warm cave large enough
to house all ten of us easily. We have soft
beds and good food and fresh milk; safety
and good fellowship. With some of tlte
things you have in here — those upholstered
chairs, for instance; what remains of your
equipment and supplies, we could make a
veritable paradise of our cave.

“So what do you say? Let’s cast in our
lots together. Make it one big, happy
family?”

J FOSTER looked at him thoughtfully.

• Enid Andrews began to cry softly.
Crystal glanced at Ralph, then at Greg,
than at Breadon again. Bert Andrews
stroked his chin. He said, “It sounds
good—”

Breadon interrupted.

“There’s just one thing, Malcolm,” he
said curtly. “We’ll accept your — your over-
tures of friendship on one condition. That
you’ll step down from the high horse
you’ve been riding lately, come to the reali-
zation that you’re not oock-o’-the-wlilk
around these parts.”

Greg said gravely, “If you mean that
our community shall be a society in which
all share and share alike, I am in complete
agreement with you.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Breadon.
“Of course, we all recognize that there
must be leadership. As our oldest man,
our most important member, Mr. Andrews
is that logical leader.. I can assure you,
acting as his lieutenant — ”

“No!” said Sparks loudly. “It’s the
same old thing in a different package, Greg.
He wants to be boss, else he won't play.
The answer is — comets to you, Breadon.
We’re doing all right the way we are;
you’re making a mess of your affairs. As
far as I’m concerned, you can stay here
and stew in your own gravy I”

He turned toward the door. Greg said,
“Wait, Sparks. I’ll be right with you.”
And he, too, nodded at Breadon. “I fear
Sparks is right, Breadon. You haven’t
learned your lesson yet. We’re going back
where we belong. We’re glad to have been
of some small service to you. If you ever
need us again, just call. Meanwhile, my
offer remains open. If you should ever
decide to join us on our terms — ”

A loud and cheerful voice interrupted
him. A voice from outside, bellowing gay

greeting, “Ahoy, you in there! Open the
door 1”

Sparks said, “Aunt Maud! What’s she
— ?” and pulled the door open. In the
oblong, against the slow gray dawn now
crawling above the hilltops, stood Aunt
Maud, a huge grin on her face, a tremen-
dous bowl in her stalwart arms. From
the bowl rose a tantalizing aroma. She
waddled in, plunked it on the nearest desk.

“Thought you folks might be sort of
hungry after a scrap,” she grinned.
“Watched it from the cave, Nice, cozy
place to watch a fight from. Saw morn-
ing was coming on, so I brought you down
some breakfast.

“Sister — ” She glanced at the sallow-
cheeked Enid shrewdly. “You look sort
of peaked. You too. Crystal. You look
older, honey. Well, Greg — ready? We’d
better be running along. 'Tina’s got our
breakfast almost ready. Fruit juice and
porridge and pancakes with butter and
sugar-syrup. Sounds good, eh? Well,
’bye, folks!”

And by main force she herded the two
men swiftly out of the skiff. Outside,
moving toward the hill. Sparks turned on
her pettishly.

“Now, what did you go and do that for.
Aunt Maud — ^you’ve gummed up every-
thing! Greg was telling ’em off; just be-
ginning to make ’em listen to reason — ”

Aunt Maud grinned and winked broadly
at Greg,

“Sparks, are all radiomen as dumb as
you, or do you hold the championship?
Greg could talk from now to doomsday
and not get anywhere with that outfit. I
.know. They’re my own haughty, indepen-
dent, pigheaded flesh and blood.

“But that stew I brought them — ” She
chuckled and rolled her eyes delightedly.
“Now, that’s a real argument. The best
their bellies ever listened to. Just wait
and see!”

VII

T he TRUTH of her statement was
exhibited very soon. That very after-
noon, in fact. The dim Titanian sun was
settling toward the westward hilltops, and
Greg was just putting the finishing touches
to a crude grist-mill he was rigging for the
women, when there came the scrape of

92 PLANET

hesitant footsteps up the rocky pathway.

Hannigan had been away since break-
fast time, making a survey of the natural
resources within easy distance of their
cave. Greg thought it was the radioman
returning.

“Hi !” he shouted over his shoulder,
without looking back. “Any luck? What
did you find?’’ Then, as no voluble, pro-
fane, fantastic answer was forthcoming,
he turned around. His eyes momentarily
betrayed his astonishment. “Oh! Hello,
Andrews !’’ he said.

Bert Andrews shuffled uncomfortably.
His gaze held a curious mixture of wist-
fulness, reluctance and expectancy. He
said, in a voice that was a trifle too breath-
lessly nonchalant, “Hello, Malcolm. Just
taking a little stroll, so I thought I might
drop up and see — see how you’re making
out.’’ He glanced about him, obviouly
impressed. “Not so bad,” he said. “Not
bad at all! That’s the cave, I suppose?
See you have things pretty well straight-
ened out. What’s that?’'

Greg’s gaze followed his nod to the
crosswork which was suspended directly
above the cave-mouth ; a latticework of
steel, firmly wire-lashed, secured by a rope,
the stretch of which dipped into the cave
itself.

“Barrier-shield,” explained Greg. “Hangs
on a pulley. We can drop it from inside.
In case of attack, you see. Slides down
that groove into the channel cut in the
ground, holds tight there.” He grunted.
“That’s one of the reasons we don’t have
any honest-to-John furniture in our home.
We had too many other important uses for
the metal.”

“Clever,” said Andrews. “Ingenious.
I — er — got to thinking over what you said
this morning, Malcolm, after you left. You
were right. For a group of civilized people
we let ourselves get into sorry shape.”

He rubbed his chin reflectively. Greg
noticed for the first time that his face was
no longer dark with beard; that though
his clothes were still dirty, he had made
an effort to straighten them, dust them.
The skin of his face, though, was pink and
sore; chafed.

Greg said, “What in the world did you
shave with, Bert? A cross-cut saw?’'

Andrews said defensively, “The electric
razor won’t work. The dry-cells are ex-

STOmES

hausted, and we can’t use D. C. without
wasting fuel. There wasn’t a honed blade
aboard the skiff. I used my pocket-knife.
It — ” he confessed ruefully, “It wasn’t
very sharp.”

Greg said, “Hannigan mounted carbo-
rundum sheets on a lathe wheel and put
edges on a couple steak knives for us. I’ll
let you have one before you go back. Hey,
there he is now ! What’s the story.
Sparks ?”

Hannigan came into the clearing at a
trot. He was excited. He said, “Sweet
Christmas cow, Greg, you know what I
run across? A — What’s this? Company?”

The eager, interested look fled from
Bert Andrews’ eyes. He said stiffly, “I —
I guess I’ll be running along now, Mal-
colm. See you again.”

H e turned, his shoulders very stiff.

Too stiff to be convincing. Greg
glanced at him appraisingly, motioned the
radioman to keep his mouth shut, called
after the young Andrews.

“Don’t go yet, Bert. We’re just getting
ready for dinner.”

“Dinner?” The young man spun like
a top. Then he recalled his dignity. “Oh —
dinner ! Why, I guess ours is almost ready,
too. ’Bye — ”

We’d be glad to have you stay,” said
Greg levelly, striving to keep the amuse-
ment out of his voice. “I think there’s a
roast tonight. Something that looks like
a young suckling pig can’t exactly tell,
though, till we taste it. These Titanian
animals are different. Then there’s a salad
and potatoes and beans, a fruit compote,
and I think ’Tina baked a pie today.”

Andrew’s eyes widened as his lips
twitched. “I — I wouldn’t want to be any
trouble,” he said faintly.

“No trouble at all,” said Greg. Then,
unable longer to restrain himself, “But of
course if you think they’ll be expecting
you — ?”

“No, I’ll stay !” blurted Andrews hastily.
“Thanks. I can wash up somewhere?”

“Inside. Ask Aunt Maud for soap.
She’s the custodian of that.” Then, as
the young man disappeared into the cave
hurriedly, Greg grinned at Hannigan.
“One!” he said.

“You want to hear about what I seen?’'
demanded the redhead. “Listen, it was

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 93

terrific! Great big marsh, full of the
damnedest life-forms and craziest vege-
tation anybody ever met up with. Hot,
too! Steamy, like the Grand Marshes of
Venus, only not quite as stinking — ”

He stopped, annoyed. “One what? You
ain’t listening to a word Fm saying. Don’t
you want to hear?’’

“Later, Sparks,’’ said Greg, “Right now
I’m wondering how long it will take the
others to fall in line.”

I T DIDN’T take long. The citadel of
stubbornness had been undermined the
night of the attack, it toppled with Bert
Andrews’ “friendly visit” — from which,
some time later, he staggered home glassy-
eyed with an overdose of wild roast, hot
vegetables, crisp greens and luscious fruits,
succulent berry pie — and it crashed, vio-
lently, the next day.

Bert Andrews brought his dad up the
hill, presumably to confer with Malcolm
on a future mutual defensive system; the
two of them lingered for lunch — ^and after
lunch old J. Foster, with the blunt direct-
ness which accounted for his success in
Earth’s business world, sat back, grunted
comfortably, and said, “That’s the first
meal I’ve enjoyed since I was a pup in
Service ! Malcolm, you win ! I’m sick and
tired of this squabbling, and of our hand-
to-mouth existence down there. Is there
room for me in this cave of yours?”

It was no moment for gloating triumph.
Greg said, “Yes, sir.”

“Then I’m moving in. And so is my
wife. What do you want me to do?”

Greg said, “Hannigan and I were plan-
ning to break ground for a small farm
this afternoon, but this is more important.
We’ll go down with you and help you move
up your personal things. How about — ”
he hesitated briefly “ — how about Crystal?
And Breadon?”

“I don’t know,” said J. Foster unhap-
pily. “But if they’re smart, they’ll quit
kicking against the pricks, too.”

They were smart. When Andrews and
his son, accompanied by Hannigan, Tommy
and Greg, appeared at the skiff to move
the Andrews’ property, when Andrews told
them bluntly that he and Enid and Bert
were casting their lot in with the cave-
dwellers, there was a moment of sultry
silence, fraught with reluctance, anger.

recrimination — then Breadon bowed to the
inevitable. Not with good grace, but with
grudging agreement he said, “Very well.
If that’s the way you want it, Mr. An-
drews. If we’re welcome up there, Mal-
colm — ?”

Greg said, “You are welcome, Breadon.
I told you that a week ago.” And promptly
forgot Breadon and Breadon’s surliness
as he realized that Crystal, too, had been
shamed into a recollection of her feminine
duty to herself. Somewhere she had found
cosmetics, and somehow she had managed
to clean and press out a fawn-colored des-
ert sun-suit. Once again, ash-blonde hair
combed back to a shoulder-length veil of
shimmering loveliness, pale golden skin
fresh and creamy and fragrant beneath the
sheer silk of her abbreviated costume, she
was the glamorous, crystal-lovely Crystal
of more leisured days. A woman at once
lovely, challenging and — desirable.

Thus the nation divided against itself
was united. And thus began the second
phase of the refugees’ struggle to exist
against staggering odds on the lonely, hos-
tile moon of Saturn,

VIII

A mazingly, the period of readjust-
ment was not long, nor was it ardu-
ous. It was accomplished briefly, surely,
in a series of emphatic object lessons. There
was Enid Andrews, for instance. On her
first afternoon in the cave she called ’Tina
to her side, ordered the beautification of
her face, her hair, her nails, and with a
sigh of relief surrendered to the ministra-
tions of the younger girl.

Greg, witness to this, frowned. But he
motioned for silence when Aunt Maud
would have made some irate comment.

That evening, by former agreement,
Enid washed the dinner dishes. When
’Tina stepped forward to dry them, Greg
stopped her.

“Sit down, ’Tina. Mrs. Andrews will
dry them.”

Enid started, gasped, stared at the huge
pile appalled. ’Tina said, “But there are
so many of them, Greg. Ten of us — ”
“You have done extra work today,” said
Greg suavely, “to earn your rest. Mrs.
Andrews is in your debt. She must work
out her obligation. We have,” he con-

94 PLANET

tinued pointedly, “no servants or masters
here. Courtesies must be repaid in kind.”

Only twice more did the lessons have
to be repeated; once when Bert Andrews
gluttonously devoured an entire berry pie
and was made to spend the next lunch-
hour picking fruit for another; again when
Breadon carelessly fouled the spring by
washing in it, and in penance was required
to construct a clay-and-stone dam below
the spring, that in the future the commu-
nity might have adequate bathing facilities ;
after that everyone understood that he had
his alloted share of work, that the work
must be done, that meals, warmth, comfort
and safety could be earned only by sweat
and toil.

And gradually the rude cave dwelling
began to take on the semblance of a home.
During the short days at their disposal
before Titan, pursuing its cosmic rounds,
plunged into the umbra of its gigantic
mother planet, every member of the refugee
corps worked feverishly to prepare and
fortify for the dark days to come.

It was well that they did so, for when
the darkness descended, ensued a bleakness
even more terrifying than Greg had antici-
pated. The eclipse of Titan by its parent
was no mild, momentary phenomenon like
the eclipsing of Earth by Luna; it was a
five day cessation of all heat and light.

With the darkness came sweeping, icy
winds, gales monstrously violent, and in-
credible cold. From a sky black and ter-
ribly came the snow, five inches of it in
an hour, eight feet of it in a day. It was
alarming at first. Then Greg and all of
them realized that the very ferocity of the
storm was their salvation! Were there to
be this frightful cold without snow, not
all the fires of Gehenna, not all the clothing
and blankets in the universe, could have
protected them. But the snow, dropping
like a sodden, white blanket, choked and
filled the mouth of their cave, piled thicker
and thicker, enswaddling them in a fleecy
comfort that kept out the bone-brittling
blasts.

Then they thanked the foresight that had
led them to build up a roof-touching fuel
reserve, a store of fresh produce and
game, for they could not leave their refuge.
They were snowbound until Titan left the
shadow of Saturn and the warth should
again melt their prison walls.

STORIES

But those days were not days of idle-
ness; they were days of accomplishment.
The women, under ’Tina’s guidance,
ripped apart unneeded goods salvaged from
the skiff’s stores — tarpaulins, extra bed-
ding and napery, carpeting, drapes — ^and
restitched them into more needed, more
practical articles of wearing and house-
hold apparel,

B readon and Greg, laying aside a
mutely-acknowledged hostility, pooled
their knowledge and ingenuity in an effort
to ascertain their whereabouts on the satel-
lite. Neither had studied mathematics
closely, a fact each now bewailed. But
they had a few books on astrogation, taken
from the skiff, and they had determination
and intelligence. Utilizing some of their
precious, dwindling store of forged metal,
they constructed a crude but — they believed
— reasonably accurate sextant with which,
when the darkness was gone, they hoped
to take celestial readings that would aid
their computations.

In the making of this, Greg was forced
to sacrifice something that had been for al-
most ten years as much a part of him as
his arms and legs. His spectacles.
Strangely, he did not miss them much
after the first day. Their purpose had
been mainly to protect him from eyestrain
and headaches in a confined vocation that
required much reading. But here on
Saturn’s satellite, health improved by hard
labor, Greg had experienced no headaches.
He was, in fact, almost disgustingly
healthy. He could tell by the straining of
his clothes at throat and chest and waist-
band that he was gaining weight; his ap-
petite had improved and when night came,
he did not have to read himself to sleep.

Young Tommy took upon himself the
task of chronicling their exile. His method,
though extravagantly romantic as befitted
his years and enthusiasm for this adven-
ture, was nonetheless efficient. He labori-
ously scraped smooth a wide portion of the
cave-wall; on this he inscribed a calendar,
a log, and a map of such portions of the
satellite as they had so far explored.

Meanwhile Sparks Hannigan fretted
over his damaged radio set. An accom-
plished bug-pounder, he took little time to
get the wiring rearranged. The replace-

WANDERERS OF

ment of metal parts was a tougher prob-
lem, but it, too, he solved with the aid of
their acetylene torch.

One final job, however, stof^ed him cold.
He shook his head when he spoke of it
to Malcolm.

“The tubes, Greg. It just ain’t no use.
We can’t operate the radio less’n we got
tubes, and ours is gone. I guess I’m just
wasting my time.’’

Greg said, “Isn’t there a type of radio
that works without tubes? Operates on a
crystal, or something?’’

Sparks said, “Y(eah. But it ain’t got no
power. We got to get a message plumb
off the satellite, out into space where it can
be picked up by a Space Patrol cruiser.
Or the Saturn lightship.’’

“And that’s impossible? Suppose you
had glass?’’

“Can you make it?’’ scoffed Sparks.

“Maybe,” said Greg. “Glass was acci-
dentally discovered in the first place, you
know, by Phoenician sailors who built a
fire on a sandy beach wherein was im-
bedded raw chunks of natron. We might
be able to do the same.”

Sparks shook his head glumly. “O.Q.
So that gives us glass. We still got to blow
it, and figger out some way of sucking the
air out, and winding filaments. Oh, un-
derstand, I ain’t saying we can’t do it,
Greg. But it’ll take years.”

Greg nodded soberly.

“Well, we’ll overlook no bets. Sparks —
tell you what to do. You go ahead and
build one of those simple “crystal” sets,
just in the event that someday a scout
ship or exploration plane should come
within our range. Andrews is an impor-
tant man, you know. Earth won’t dismiss
him casually as ‘Lost in Space.’ We’ll
also, as soon as the Sun comes back, clear
a wide swath in the plain below us and
construct a huge SOS sign of wood and
underbrush that will be visible by day and
can be set afire by night.

“Then, if we should ever hear the signal
of a scout ship, we’ll hope they see our
marker.”

“If!” grunted Sparks.

“What’s that?”

“Skip it!” said Hannigan. “I was just
making book against myself.”

THE WOLF JHOON 95

S O GREG maintained an optimism be-
fore the others, an optimism he did not
entirely feel himself. Always he talked
of the day they would leave Titan, but
sometimes he wondered if that day would
ever come.

And truth to tell, there were periods
when he almost hoped that day would not
ever come! For here, a thousand million
miles from the Earth that had borne him,
Gregory Malcolm had finally come into
the rulership that, on Earth, he could never
win, but that here was his by right of
greater strength and knowledge.

He gazed about him, musing, and saw a
cavern bright with candles that he had
taught the womenfolk to render from the
fats of wild beasts, warm with a flame he
had kindled and nurtured, comfortable
with furnishings he had constructed to
their purpose. He saw nine men and
women, a half dozen of whom had been his
“superiors” aforetime, but who now looked
to him for guidance, protection and leader-
ship.

His mind’s eye pierced the rock walls
of the cavern and gazed, marveling, at
the cosmos as viewed from desolate Titan.
When these snows melted he could stand
upon the hillside beneath the flaming moons
of Saturn, beneath the never-ending won-
der of Saturn’s massive, multi-colored
Rings, and say with Defoe’s ancient casta-
way that here he, indeed, was monarch of
all he surveyed.

This was his ordained fate ; this was his
brave, new world; these people were his
subjects. And he was, for howsoever
brief or long a time, an Emperor. And the
white, the whirling stars — these were his
empire !

Perhaps he was not the only one of
that group who saw this truth. For there
was more than mere grudging lip-service
in the changed attitude of Andrews and
his wife and son. Bert Andrews was a
changed boy. His wilfulness had van-
ished; his allegiance to Greg was ardent.
Maud Andrews’ affection for Greg was an
obvious thing. She saw to it that he was
first fed, first clothed, first taken care of
in all things ; hers was an attitude of
fierce maternalism, springing from a breast
that had never known motherhood.

And — and there was another strange

96 PLANET

thing, too. A thing of singing glory that
Greg could scarce believe, even though its
truth was exhibited to him in a thousand
little ways.

Crystal Andrews!

A great change had come upon Crystal
Andrews since the loss of the Carefr'ee.
Of the old Crystal, only one part remained.
Her blindingly radiant beauty. Her selfish-
ness, her coldness, had fled, had been ban-
ished as her accustomed languidness had
been banished by the obligation of labor.

Daily her attitude toward Greg grew more
intimate. From aloofness she melted into
acceptance, acceptance faded and became
approval. Approval waxed as transpiring
events proved time and again Greg’s wis-
dom and his right to rule ; there came
upon the girl an eagerness to be the first
to do whatever he suggested.

This was good, and as it should be. But
there was something else, too; something
deeper. At first Greg could not under-
stand it, then gradually its meaning became
clear even to his wholly-masculine mind.
The sudden glance . . . the lingering
touch of hand against hand as they chanced
to pass one another . . . the host of un-
necessary little questions that brought them
into contact a dozen times a day . . . the
sweeping flush when he, looking up un-
expectedly, met her gaze. All these and
other things. The lithe, sure, free, but
overwhelmingly feminine allure of her
body, shoulder brushing his as they sat
before the fireplac’eTh the long evenings.
The slow caress of her voice when she
spoke his name. The moment of swift
alarm — a torpid snake that had somehow
wriggled into the cavern, toward the
warmth of the fire — and Crystal in his
arms for all too short a moment. And
drawing away reluctantly when the “dan-
ger” was past.

H e should have known from these
things. Or from the amused glances
of Sparks Hannigan, or the increased
surliness of Ralph Breadon, or from the
sudden loss of gaiety on the part of ’Tina.

“What’s the matter with you, ’Tina?
Don’t you feel well lately?”

Her eyes avoiding his. “I’m all right,
Greg. It’s nothing.”

“But you don’t sing any more. You’ve

STORIES

sure you’re well? There’s nothing I can
do for you?”

“No.” Her voice low. “No, thank you.”

“But I want you to be happy. Look,
’Tina — let’s you and me play cribbage
tonight like we used to? We haven’t had
a game for weeks. How about it ?”

“Oh, Greg — ^would you like to ? Really ?”

Her dullness slipping away from her
like a dropped cape; her voice throbbingly
eager. Then another voice at his elbow,
a throaty, heart-stirring voice. “Oh, Greg
— me, too? May I play? Will you teach
me the game?”

Greg turned, smiling. “Why, of course.
We’ll get Sparks and make it a four-
handed game. Eh, ’Tina?”

But ’Tina drew back, her eyes hurt again
and distant. Her voice faint. “N-no,
Greg. You and Crystal. I don’t think I
want to. . .”

Which Greg could not understand. But
gradually, out of his confusion and mis-
comprehension, one truth came clear. And
with its coming there was a sudden singing
in his heart, a fire in his veins. He loved
Crystal Andrews. And Crystal Andrews
loved him!

T hen one day they woke to find the
floor of the cave glistening darkly with
a pool of water. The snow was melting
from the mouth of the cave. When they
attacked the weakened snowbank with
shovels and brooms, laughing and fighting
their way clear of the white barrier, they
discovered that the dark days had ended,
that once again the sky of Titan was sil-
ver-blue and bright, that already the
warmth had turned the snow mantle to
chuckling rivulets that ran merrily down
the hills, leaving fresh green in its wake.
The miracle of Titan’s “winter” had
passed, and the land would again be theirs
for three warm weeks.

Greg’s brain was afire with a hundred
projects. A viaduct to carry water into
the cavern during the next cold period.
They had had to depend on melted snow
this time. A study of the stars with their
new sextant. The clearing of ground for
the gigantic signal. He turned to the oth-
ers enthusiastically.

“We’ve got to work now, folks, as we
never worked before! Tommy, I want
you to get right to work on that new via-

WANDERERS OF TBE WOLF MOON 97

duct we were talking about. Andrews,
your first job will be to replenish the wood
supply. Try the west woods, that’s the
best timber. ’Tina, see what these short
‘winters’ do to the vegetation, will you?
I don’t imagine they’re dead. Nature has
ways of counteracting its own excesses.
I believe we’ll find the vegetation here on
Titan is phenomenally hardy. But see,
anyway.

“Aunt Maud — you and Enid set out
those traps we made during the dark spell.
We’ll have a hot stew tonight. Breadon,
suppose you and Sparks and I go down
to the plain and start planning our signal
system ? Crystal — ”

Crystal was at his side, her hand on his
arm. “I’m going with you, Greg.”

“What? But they need you — Oh, all
right !”

He smiled. Behind him Aunt Maud
snorted and disguised the snort with a rat-
tling cough. ’Tina looked at him oddly
for a moment before she turned obediently
toward where last week there had been a
vegetable patch. Her eyes were hurt. Greg
could not understand why.

It was not until he was halfway down
the hill that he remembered he had prom-
ised to let her help with the sign project.
Of course it was too late to do anything
about it then. Besides, Crystal’s feet were
unsteady on the melting path. She needed
his arm about her for support. And her
hair had a tantalizing fragrance all its
own. , ,

IX

I T TOOK all of the men, working stead-
ily from dawn to dusk every day, two
full weeks to construct the signal. When
it was done, Greg looking down upon it
from their hilltop eyrie, gazed upon it with
approval and found it good.

Across the mile-wide flatness of the plain
they had heaped huge piles of branches,
faggots, brush, forming the letters
“S O S.” Green, they stood out boldly;
withered and faded, their brownness would
be equally clear.

Hannigan was pleased with his share of
the work, too.

“ — wire,” he finished, “from the bottom
of the ‘S’ to the cave. We just about had

7 — Planet — Sprins

enough, too. Anyhow, if the ship should
happen to come at night instead of in the
daytime, all we got to do is push the
switch, and a spark’ll jump in the tinder.
Send the whole signal up in flame in less
time than you can say ‘integral calculus.’ ”
He frowned. “If,” he added, “a ship
comes at all. Which of course I couldn’t
say yes or no.”

“It will come,” said Greg absently. He
said it because it was the thing to say ; as
a matter of habit. He was not even think-
ing of his words. Pie was thinking, now
that this project had been accomplished,
of other things. Of a silo that must be
built. They had nine head of livestock
now, due to Tommy O’Doul’s persistence.
The beasts would have to be provided with
winter quarters. One goat in the cave had
not been so bad, last month. But nine
goats — Perhaps, he thought, that small
cave next to ours. If we could dig into
it through the west wall . . . make a small
opening. . .

His lack of concentration brought a false
conclusion from the third man in the
group. Ralph Breadon stirred restively.

“You should say,” he insinuated, “if
Malcolm wants a ship to come!”

The words penertated Greg’s thoughts
of the future slowly. He turned a blank,
questioning look on the other.

“Eh?”

“I merely said,” repeated Breadon,
“that one could not condemn a man in your
position for showing lack of enthusiasm
in a rescue party.”

Greg stared at him thoughtfully.

“Just what do you mean by that,
Breadon ?”

Breadon shrugged.

“Isn’t it fairly obvious? Two short
months ago you were a nobody. A secre-
tary without background, position or au-
thority. Today you’re the demigod of
Titan. Sir Boss. I don’t complain ; I
merely comment. You have everything a
man could ask for. Authority . . . security
. . . a woman. .

The last jolted Malcolm out of his
apathy. He took a swift step forward,
gripped Breadon’s lapels with a fist grown
heavier, rougher, with labor.

“If you mean Crystal, Breadon — ”

Breadon stood his ground. “Let go of
me, Malcolm. I’m not going to fight you

98 PLANET

again. Of course I mean Crystal. It’s
perfectly obvious that you and she — Oh,
hell, man ! Don’t be a hypocrite ! After
all, when people live as intimately as we
do, in one little cave, .

G reg felt dark anger welling up within
him like a gall-tinctured flood. Rage
not that Breadon should say this thing, but
that there should be cause for his thinking
it. He choked, thickly, “Damn you,
Breadon — there’s not a thing wrong be-
tween Crystal and me. I love her, yes.
And Crystal loves me. We’ve only been
waiting till this big job was finished — ’’
“Then if I were you,’’ retorted Breadon
wearily, “I wouldn’t wait any longer. Or
is it another case of the king being incapa-
ble of doing wrong ? Anyhow, I think you
understand what I mean now. Two months
ago a marriage between you and Crystal
Andrews v/ould have been ridiculous. To-
day — ’’

He shrugged again. Greg glared at him
wrath fully, impotently, for a long moment.
Then he spun on his heel, led the way down
the hill to the cave. Sparks scurried along
behind him anxiously. “Now, look, Greg —
don’t do nothing you might regret — ’’
“Shut up! I’ll handle this!”

At the cave he called all the settlers be-
fore him. They came from their tasks,
surprised, wondering. He wasted no time.
He broached the subject boldly.

“Bcause we ten are marooned here on
a desert satellite,” he said savagely, “with-
out a clergyman, there is no reason we
must abandon all the rights and privileges
of civilized society. Human emotions have
a habit of enduring. I think it is no secret
that Crystal Andrews and I have fallen
in love. I intend, therefore, to marry her
as soon as it can be arranged.

“Crystal — ” He turned to the girl. “Do
I speak for you as well as for myself?”

The girl nodded and stepped forward
into the circle of his arm. “You know you
do, Greg.”

J. Foster Andrews looked pleased. He
said, “That’s fine, son. But who’s going
to do the marrying ?”

“You are. As owner of the Carefree,
you were also its commander. I think the
space code would permit your acting in
capacity of justice.” Greg’s anger melted.

STORIES

“I’m not being very formal about this, sir.
Perhaps I should ask for your permis-
sion.”

“You have it, my boy! And now — ”
Archly. “When will the — ^hrrumph ! — ^
happy event take place?”

Greg looked at Crystal questioningly,
“Next week?” she said, “Hi have to have
a little time, Greg.”

“That’s it, then,” said Greg. “Next
week. When the dark period comes.”

T he little group broke up, then.

One by one they murmured words of
congratulation and approval to their leader
and his bride-to-be and drifted away.
Finally Crystal went back into the cave,
and Greg was left alone with ’Tina, who
alone of all the group, had so far said
nothing. He went to her.

“You haven’t told me you’re happy,
’Tina.”

She turned slowly.

“Shall I say so, Greg?”

“I want you to. Why do you act so
strangely toward me, ’Tina? Do you dis-
like me? You used to — ”

“Fm happy,” she cried suddenly. “Now
I’ve said it. You want me to. Are you
satisfied? Why don’t you let me alone,
Greg? Must I like or dislike you? You
have one woman ? Must you — ” She broke
from his side, raced forward to the edge
of the hill, stared blindly down into the
plain. Greg moved after her, worried.
“What is it, ’Tina? You’re not happy!
Are you lonely? Why don’t you get mar-
ried, too? Sparks ... or Breadon . . .”

He stopped, his gaze over her shoulder
settling on something in the valley beneath.
A thing incredible to behold, but that was
. . . yes, zms . . .

“ ’Tina !” he gasped.

At the tone of his voice she spun
swiftly, anxiously. “What is it, Greg?”
“Look! Down there! A — ^a human!”

X

[ORE GRUEL, Marberry?” asked
Aunt Maud solicitously. “Can
you eat another spoonful ?” She glared at
those who ringed the reclining spaceman
belligerently. “Why don’t you let him
alone?” she demanded. “Greg Malcolm,

WANDEREItS OF THE WOLF MOON 99

I thought you had better sense ! The man’s
weak and sick!”

Marberry’s eyes were like charred pock-
ets, but he summoned a weak smile.

“I’m all right,” he said. “There isn’t
much more to tell. We managed” to cut
free from the Cardfree just before she
crashed. Four of us. Lipstead, Hawkins,
Craeburn and myself. Our skiff cracked
up in a mountain gorge. Craeburn was
killed, and Lipstead broke his leg. But
we fixed it up in splints, and he got by.

“When the snow came — ” He shut his
eyes momentarily, as though to rid them
of a persistently evil vision. “When the
snow came we almost died. We ran short
on fuel, and the skiff leaked. Then the
electro-stove ran down, and we had to eat
cold, canned food.

“Even so, we pulled through. But when
it got warm again, Hawkins said we
mustn’t spend another winter in the skiff.
We had to find a cave in the mountains, he
said. So we abandoned the ship and started
moving. It was then that they caught us.”

Breadon, who had entered late, asked,
“Who?”

“Natives of Titan,” Greg capitulated
briefly. “He described ’em to us before
you came in. Savages. Cannibals. Hu-
manoid, but no culture. Funny physical
make-up, like the Uranians. Don’t feel
the cold at all. Murdering devils. From
what he says, we’re lucky they haven’t
found us before this.”

Breadon said, “Cannibals!” and looked
sallow. The supine man continued weakly.

“We had to leave Lipstead behind. He
couldn’t run. He drew a gun on us, threat-
ened to kill us all if we didn’t leave him.
We heard his gun afterward. He must
have got a half dozen of them before —
before they got him.

“Then Hawkins and me split up. It was
the only way, he said. One of us might
be lucky. I — I guess I was. They fol-
lowed him instead of me. And all the
time — ” His voice raised feverishly. “And
all the time, we was only about ten miles
from here! If we’d only knowni — ”

Aunt Maud would stand for no more.
She bustled between the invalid and his
listeners, shooed them away angrily. “Run
along, now. This man needs sleep and
quiet. Go ’way !”

B ut later, as Marberry slept the
sleep of exhaustion, Greg called a
council of war.

“Ten miles,” he said soberly. “If those
creatures are only ten miles from here, we
can expect an attack almost any day. Or
moment. From now on, we must keep a
watch at all times. No one must leave the
cave alone.”

Hannigan said, “You reckon tliey’ll find
us, Greg? Titan’s a big hunk of dirt.”

“They’re savages. Savages can follow
the faintest trails of wild animals, let
alone the spoor of a frightened, sick man.
They‘11 be here.”

Hannigan said, “There’s one good hunk
of news in the whole sorry mess. Mar-
berry said him and his companions sent
out radio SOS calls for three solid weeks.
Till their radio run dry. Maybe somebody
picked up one of them calls. Maybe there’s
help on the way right now.”

“Radio. Speaking of radio, Sparks,
how about that crystal receiving set you
were working on ? Is it finished ?”

Sparks smiled sourly.

“Finished your sainted sandals! It’s all
washed up. Listen to this!”

He stepped to the hodge-podge of wires
and coils on which he had been laboring,
adjusted it. From its diaphragm came
dismal sounds. Squawks, squeals, quaver-
ing vibrations.

“Static,” said Breadon.

“Double it,” gloomed Hannigan, “and
add a thousand. The worst kind of static.
An electrical disturbance field.”

Greg frowned. “But that can’t be.
Sparks. There’s no electricity around
here. No generating plants or — ”

“It can’t be,” snorted Sparks, “but it
is. I don’t know what makes it act that-
away. Maybe it’s the H-layer of this
cockeyed satellite. Sun spots, maybe.
Whatever it is, it sure gums up my ma-
chine.” He stared at the tiny set help-
lessly.

Greg stirred himself.

“Well, then we’ll have to look forward
to fighting this battle without hope of as-
sistance. Andrews, I want you and Tommy
to inspect the cave-mouth barrier imme-
diately, see that it’s in perfect shape and
reinforce it. Ralph, you and Sparks drive
the livestock into the small cave so they’ll
be hidden. ’Tina, the fuel reserve?”

100 PLANET

“Complete, Greg.”

“Good ! I’m going out to stand the first
watch. If you need me, I’ll be — ”

At that moment a small figure, bristle-
haired with excitement, came scampering
into the cave.

“Greg!” cried Tommy O’Doul. “Greg
— they’re down there! On the plain. I
seen them. And I — I think they seen me,
too! They’re heading up this way!”

A HALF HOUR later, Greg, flanked
by a tight-jawed little band of com-
patriots, crouched in the bottle-mouth of
an altered cavern.

The short time that had elapsed since
Tommy O’Doul gave the alarm had been
minutes of swift preparation. What little
of water, food and supplies could be
brought into the cave had been hustled in
by eager hands. The stock had been herded
into the small, adjoining cave, and boulders
had been rolled against the cave mouth.
The metal grill had been dropped before
the mouth of their own cage; it was be-
hind this they now crouched, through this
that Greg looked out upon a lead-gray sky
and green hills.

“There’s one thing,” said Greg. “One
break in our favor. It’s starting to get
darker, and it’s barely afternoon. We must
be dipping into the penumbra of Saturn.
In a little while the darkness should come,
and the gales and the cold.”

Hannigan said, “That ain’t no break for
us. Marberry said they didn’t feel heat and
cold.”

“I know. But they can’t prevent the
snow falling. If it comes down like it did
during the last dark spell, we will have
an eight-foot fall of ice between us and
our attackers.”

Andrews looked at the sky anxiously.
“But until it snows, Greg?”

“We fight!” said Greg grimly.

Bert Andrews, who had wriggled for-
ward on his belly to the furthermost ell of
the bottle-neck, ducked back hastily,
twisted his head over his shoulder.

“Then we fight now!” he rasped. “Here
they come!”

It was then that the Earth-exiles saw,
for the first time, the dominant race of
Saturn’s sixth satellite. To see was to
marvel that Nature had once again — as on
Earth, Mars, Uranus and lo — selected the

STORIES

bipedal humanoid form in creating a rul-
ing race. Except for the thick, downy pelts
that covered these Titanian’s bodies, the
low, slanting, bestial foreheads, the depth
of breast and rapacious mouth slits, these
creatures were the counterparts of man.

But there were other unapparent differ-
ences, thought Greg. Marbery had re-
ported the Titanians impervious to heat
and cold, which argued a difference in nor-
mal body temperature and perhaps a dif-
fcrance in basic metabolism. There must
be sharp differences between man’s men-
tality and that of these man-like beasts, as
well, else they would not come seeking
their interplanetary guests as the hunts-
man seeks his quarry.

A long, questing, silver-pelted line, they
climbed the hillside path to the flat clearing
before the cave. They paused there, peer-
ing about them suspiciously, nostrils wide
and eyes searching. Greg realized, sud-
denly, that these man-things were far down
humanity’s scale; so much of the animal
was in them that they placed more de-
pendence in their olfactory than in their
visual sense. They seemed to catch the
man scent, the spoor they had been fol-
lowing. Their leader moved forward to
the grill work. Hannigan ’s shoulder brushed
that of Greg as he wriggled forward.

“Now, Greg? Shall we let ’em have
it?”

Greg whispered hurriedly, “When I give
the word, all fire at once. Remember, we
have very little ammunition. We must
make every shot count. Ready?”

He glanced at his all-too-tiny fighting
crew. Bert Andrews, old J. Foster, Brea-
don. Sparks, himself. “Tommy,” he or-
dered, “go back into the cave!”

“Aw!” said Tommy — ^but obeyed. Greg
glanced about him once more. Others of
the Titanians had slunk to their leader’s
side now. Their voices, guttural and mono-
syllabic, carried plainly over the few in-
tervening yards.

“Now!” cried Greg.

F ive rifles spoke as one. Their
conjoined thunder beat deafeningly
upon the sweating cavern walls, echoed
and re-echoed, ripping at Greg’s eardrums.
But another sound pierced the roar of gun-
fire. The shrill, pain-laden screams of
stricken man-things. The inquisitive leader

WANDERERS OF THE WOLF MOON 101

fell without ever knowing the cause of hsi
death. A Titanian behind him opened his
slit-mouth in a flat, high scream, turned to
run, tearing at his gaping chest with claws
that crimsoned as he tore. He took three
steps, toppled, crashed. Another body was
beneath his own ; still another fell upon his.

Old J. Foster’s lips were white. He
turned to Greg, sickened and trembling.

“We can’t do this, Greg ! It’s slaughter !’’

A weak voice cackled derision. “Don’t
feel sorry for ’em. If they get in here,
they’ll show you what a real slaughter
looks like. Malcolm, have you got a gun
for me?’’

It was the sailor, Marberry. Greg said,
“Go back and rest a while longer. Mar-
berry. We have no more guns.”

“I’ll get Tommy’s.”

“Rest. This siege may last all day, all
night or for a week. You’ll get your
turn.”

Marberry disappeared. Greg said, “Fire !
Keep on firing ! They’re bewildered.
Maybe they’ll break and run.”

Again the salvo of gunfire rocked the
corridor, and again foremost figures
slumped to the ground, slicing the ranks
of the attackers. But now, peering through
the grill, Greg saw that he had underesti-
mated the manpower of the attackers. They
were not a dozen or two dozen . . . there
were a hundred of them milling, now, in
the small clearing, and the path was still
clogged with the silvery bodies of others
lumbering to the attack.

What happened in the next hour was
such stuff as nightmares are made of. At
first Greg cautioned himself each time he
pulled the trigger of his rifle that he must
make his shot count; later he fell into a
dull, scarce-comprehending state of mono-
existence wherein he was conscious only
of the nerveless and repeated movements
of his hands. Aim . . . load . . . fire!
Aim again . . . load . . . fire . . . aim . . .

And at first there was little need for
aiming For the Titanians, savagely prodi-
gal of life, knew only one way of fighting —
to press forward in brute force, attempting
to crush down the metal grill that stood be-
tween them and their vengeance. To fire
ino that thick press of bodies was sure
havoc. The Titanians were weaponless
save for the cudgels they whirled about
their heads threateningly; nor could they

break down the barrier so long as the suc-
ceeding hands of all who gripped it be-
came the limp, impotent hands of the dead.

Then at last even their dim, animal in-
telligence saw that this was a losing bat-
tle. A cry rose and was shuttled from
mouth to mouth. The silvery figures, now
gray in ever-gathering dusk, wisped away
from the cave-mouth.

“Licked ’em!” cried Hannigan. “They’re
running, by Peter! Golly, Greg! Look
at that pile out there!”

There was awe in his voice, distaste in
Greg’s eyes as he looked on the motionless
mound heaped before the cave. But Greg
said, “Don’t get rash ! They may be plan-
ning a new attack. Breadon — what’s
wrong with you, man?”

Ralph Breadon grinned wryly.

“Fortune’s favored child, that’s me!
They didn’t have any weapons to shoot
me with, so I shot myself. Bounced a
bullet off the grill. It came back and
pinked my arm.”

“Go get it dressed. There it comes!”
cried Greg.

“The new attack?” Sparks whirled.

“The darkness. And the snow !”

He was right. The threatened period of
darkness had descended at last. Once again
Titan was within the shadow of its primary.
And once again the vast winds were keen-
ing from the hilltops, the great flakes of
snow were tumbling from a lifeless sky.
Greg’s voice was exultant.

“Now we’re safe ! In an hour or so
we’ll be behind a fortress of ice. And I
don’t think they’ll lay siege to us in a bliz-
zard for a solid week.”

His triumph was short-lived. For even
as he anticipated victory, disaster beat on
the portals of their refuge. From the
depths of the cave came a shrill scream,
the shout of Marberry, and Tommy’s fran-
tic cry —

“Greg! Come a-running! They’ve
found the back entrance !”

T he back entrance ! Greg’s heart
lurched. He cursed himself, suddenly,
for having tried to accomplish too much in
making their cavern habitable. For by so
doing, he had rendered them vulnerable in
a spot where would be no barrier of ice an
hour hence.

The back entrance. The archway they

102 PLANET

had broken out between their large cave
and the smaller one wherein Tommy’s live-
stock was herded. Somehow the Titanians
had found the other cave, rolled away the
boulders, and were now attempting to get
at their quarry from the rear.

Greg shouted, “Andrews, you stand
guard here ! One man will be enough.
The rest of you — come on !“

The first of the Titanians was pushing
through the cleft just as he reached the
main chamber. There was a look of un-
holy glee on the manlike creature’s thin
lips as he attained the cave. But it died
there, suddenly, frostily. It was not Greg
who dropped him. It was young Tommy,
staggering under the recoil of a rifle almost
as tall as himself, firing pointblank, bounc-
ing back to reload manfully, bawling with
youthful glee, “Got him, Greg!”

T hen there was no time for speech,
because the Titanians were pour-
ing through the breech in a howling, flame-
eyed mob. For a moment Greg, even as
he fought, felt despair touch his heart with
leaden fingers. There was no grill here to
bar the enemy’s passage; the cleft was
wide enough to admit three at a time. He
and his companions were outnumbered ten,
twenty to one.

But he did not, could not, take into con-
sideration two vital facts. The first was
the indomitable gallantry of his fellow
exiles. He had expected that, in defense
of their lives, their possessions, their
women, the armed men would fight to the
last breath. And they did. Pressing for-
ward on relentless feet. Breadon, An-
drews, Bert, Hannigan. But Greg had
not realized that the women, too, could
fight. As in a smoke-veiled dream he
caught glimpses of their activities. Aunt
Maud and ’Tina, armed with huge ladles,
dipping their weapons into a massive pot of
boiling water, flinging the scalding liquid at
the cold-impervious but heat-sensitive in-
vaders. Crystal, no longer a serene and
radiant beauty, but a flaming Balkyr whose
ash-blonde hair tumbled about her, for-
gotten, gaining a vantage point at the very
lip of the opening, slashing ferociously at
the attackers with a monstrous cleaver.
Enid Andrews racing to the wall, digging
in Greg’s duffle, pressing something into
his hands.

STORIES

“Your flame-pistol, Gregory!”

Greg grasped it eagerly. “Stand back.
Crystal 1”

She turned, and saw, and fled. And the
ochre flame mushroomed into the heart
of the still-charging Titanians. Their
charge stilled, faltered, wavered, died. The
stench of charred bodies was nauseous.
Then there were screams of fear — and
the Titanians were in rout!

Into the small cave they pursued them;
from it but a handfull of the silver-pelted
savages escaped. And when the last living
invader had disappeared, Greg turned to
his exhausted followers with a smile of
weary triumph.

“We’ll see no more of them,” he prom-
ised. “Already the snow is a foot deep.
By morning both caves will be completely
walled in. And I think we’ve taught them
to fear us. What, ’Tina?”

For she was standing before him; her
eyes were cool and positive . . . there was
decision in her tone.

“I thought it was all over for us a mo-
ment ago,” she said. “And I knew, then,
Greg, that it was a mistake for me to die
without having told you. I promised my-
self that if a miracle occurred . . . and we
should live ... I would tell you.”

He said wonderingly, “But what, ’Tina?
I don’t—”

“I know you don’t, Greg. That is why
I must say it. I love you. Have loved
you since that first day.” Her eyes were
grave. Greg’s were embarrassed.

He said, “But you — you shouldn't say
such things, ’Tina. Crystal — ”

“She is a brave woman, Greg. But she
is not your woman. She is his.”

His gaze followed ’Tina’s across the
room, to where Crystal knelt beside the in-
jured Breadon. She was cleansing his
wound, which was as it should be. But
there was a softness, a tenderness, to her
motions . . . and a look in her eyes, Greg
looked away, suddenly aware that even
from the beginning he had felt this barrier
between them. Perhaps Crystal had loved
him, for a while and in a fashion. But she
loved him for his strength, his power, his
ability to rule. She was a woman of the
ruling class ; ever her conscious trend
would be toward allegiance with those who
led. But in the showdown . . . when in-
stinct overcame logic . . .

WANDEREItS OF

Hannigan cried across the chamber,
“What, Greg?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Greg
gruffly.

“But you did. I heard you say — Omi-
gawd!” Sparks made a sudden leap toward
the bench on which rested the forgotten
crystal set. “It’s this ! Listen /”

S TATIC still boiled through the speaker
of the tiny set. But now, above the
static, riding its vibrations, was superim-
posed the sound of a human voice. And
the voice was calling, over and over again,
“Space Patrol Cruiser Orestes . . . call-
ing survivors of the Carefree. We are
looking for you. Where are you . . . where
are you? Come in, Carefree survivors.
Space Patrol Cruiser Orestes . . . calling
survivors . . .”

Greg looked at ’Tina. Then once again
at Crystal, whose face, upturned with sud-
den, speechless joy, was the radiant vision
of unattainable perfection. Then at Sparks,
whose gaze met his reluctantly. He said,
“Sparks — press the plunger.”

Hannigan’s hand moved slowly toward
the control that would set into flame the
gigantic brush-signal on the plain below.
With strange reluctance, everything con-
sidered. For certainly Sparks realized as
plainly as he, Greg, that the snow was
falling with increasing rapidity, that the
cruiser must be almost directly overhead
for its signal to penetrate the raucous in-
terference of static, that if this opportunity
were lost it might be years and years be-
fore . . .

Sparks voice was low in his ears.

“Are you sure, Greg?”

And suddenly there was deathly silence
in the cave. Never until that moment had
Gregory Malcolm realized how completely
was he the ruler of this tiny clan. Here,
where all life and the future of life and
the future of these men and women were
concerned, the last great judgment was rele-
gated to him.

He looked about him uncertainly. And
what he read in his comrade’s eyes sur-
prised him. For there was reluctance in
the eyes of Bert Andrews ... a vague
regret in those of old J. Foster Andrews
. . . hope and pleading in those of the girl
’Tina . . . frank disapproval in those of
the woman they knew as ‘Aunt Maud.’

THE WOLF JHOON 103

Only the eyes of Crystal Andrews, who
were he to let the cruiser pass might be
his wife, was there mirrored fear and ap-
prehension . . .

He shook himself. And with that small
gesture he shrugged from his shoulders an
ermine that had lain there all too briefly.
Quietly he said the words that stripped
him of his sceptre, that swept away his
empire of the stars.

“Press it, Sparks!” he said.

« A REMARKABLY ingenious de-

.tJL vice, sir,” said Captain Alien-
grove approvingly. “And you made use
of it in the nick of time. We were just
about to abandon the search when the
snowy waste beneath us blossomed sud-
denly with that signal. I’m sorry we
couldn’t get here sooner, sir. But — ” And
he glanced about the cavern appreciatively.
“But you appear to have had matters under
control.”

J. Foster Andrews said, “Well — er —
Captain, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t —
hrrumph I — altogether my doing. Greg,
here — ”

Captain Allengrove dismissed Malcolm
with a glance.

“Yes, yes, I quite understand. One
couldn’t expect you to take care of all the
minor details. But I must say, Mr. An-
drews, you are a fortunate man. Inas-
much as you established residence on Titan,
the Federation will be forced to acknowl-
edge your priority claim to the heretofore
unknown ore deposit near your cave.”

“The — er — ore deposit ?” Andrews
looked blank.

Sparks hollered, “Oh, my sainted ton-
sils! The swamp! Of course! Pitch-
blende ! That’s why there was so much
static interference ! Radium !”

The cruiser’s commander frowned on
him.

“Exactly. Of course, Mr. Andrews,
you cannot file a full claim to the prop-
erty. That requires a full year’s residence.
And a man as important as yourself — ”

Greg Malcolm started. He had said
nothing up till now. He had been given
an opportunity to say nothing. The cap-
tain had addressed himself solely to the
one “important” man in their party, the
man for whom, primarily, the search had
been made, the man to whose “genius”

104 PLANET

was attributed the existence of the casta-
ways.

Now he spoke up. He said, “But I am
establishing residence. Captain Allengrove.”

Allengrove permitted himself the luxury
of a small smile.

“You, Malcolm? But really, my dear
fellow, only a spaceman could undertake
such a task. A secretary — ”

Aunt Maud waddled forward belliger-
ently. She said, “Secretary — pah! Fiddle-
faddle, Captain! You don’t know what
you’re talking about! And as for you.
Brother Jonathan, I’m ashamed of you!
Taking credit for all this — arragh!” She
turned to Greg. “Gregory, I’m an old
woman, and perhaps I’m an old fool, as
well. But I’ve had more fun and excite-
ment in the past month than I’ve had in
the previous forty years. Be — ^be damned
if I’ll go back to Earth and piddle away
my remaining years at operas and pink
teas. I’m staying here with you !”

Enid Andrews, into whose shoulders
had so quickly come the grace and ease of
authority that was her charm, looked
shocked. “Maud !” she exclaimed.

Sparks Hannigan breathed a sigh of
relief. “Then that makes three of us,” he
said. “Any more takers?”

Tommy O’Doul pushed his way to Greg’s
side. “Can I stay, too, Greg? Can I,
huh? Me, too?”

Greg said gratefully, “If you want to.
Tommy. But, Bert — yon?”

F or Bert Andrews had also aligned
himself with his aunt and Sparks. Now
he said defiantly, “What Aunt Maud says is
good enough for me. I’ll stick!”

’Tina was already beside Greg; her
gaze was fiercely loyal. She did not need
to say anything. Captain Allengrove
looked stunned. “But really,” he said,
“but really, this is most unusual! I mean,
we were sent to rescue you! I — er — I
don’t quite see how you expect to survive
without leadership — ”

Aunt Maud snorted belligerently. “Lead-
ership! You just leave us supplies and

STORIES

we’ll have all the leadership we need ! Mar-
berry, you’re staying, aren’t you? Well,
that’s seven of us. A lucky number! I
don’t suppose there are any more?”

She glared at Crystal. Greg, too, was
watching the girl. Now before the stead-
fastness of their combined gazes, her eyes
dropped. Her cheeks colored faintly. But
she did not move from Breadon’s side. She
said, “I — I’m sorry. I hope you under-
stand, Greg.”

Greg said, “I understand.”

“Furthermore,” declared Aunt Maud
staunchly, “I’m warning you, Jonathan!

I know you! If you go home bragging
about your part in the colonization of
Titan, I’ll follow you, so help me! And
if you fail to keep us equipped with sup-
plies — ”

J. Foster said hurriedly, “Now, Maud!”

Captain Allengrove looked at them all
uncomprehendingly. It didn’t make sense.
But he was a Space Officer — it was not his
place to engage in family quarrels ; his duty
was to rescue what few of this astonishing
crew wished to be rescued. He coughed
nervously. He said, “Well, Mr. Andrews
— if you’re ready now?”

“Yes,” said J. Foster. “We’re ready
now. Goodbye, Greg,” he said. “And —
er — thanks, old boy!”

Greg said levelly, “That’s 0.11 right.
Goodbye.” He said, less levelly, “Goodbye,
Miss Andrews.”

But Crystal and Breadon were already
turning toward the portal, toward the
cruiser that would carry them back to an
easier, gentler world. So at the end, there
were no last farewells. Just a single word,
and silence.

Yet somehow, strangely, Greg Mal-
colm did not mind too much. For in losing
one thing, he had found much more. He
■ was bulwarked with greater, truer friends
than most men ever know ... he stood in
a cave that was his home ... on a new
world that was yet his shining, unblem-
ished empire.

And there was the touch of a warm hand
on his own.

And the Gods Laughed

By FREDRie BROWN

Hank was spinning quite a space lie — something about earrings
wearing their owners. The crew got a boot out of the yarn— until

they got to thinking.

Illustration by Clyne

Y OU know how it is when you’re
with a work crew on one of the aster-
oids. You’re there, stuck for the
month you signed up for, with four other

guys and nothing to do but talk. Space
on the little tugs that you go in and return
in, and live in while you’re there, is at such
a premium that there isn’t room for a book

105

PLANET STORIES

106

or a magazine nor equipment for games.
And you're out of radio range except for
the usual once-a-terrestrial-day, system-
wide newscasts.

So talking is the only indoor sport you
can go in for. Talking and listening.
You’ve plenty of time for both because a
work-day, in space-suits, is only four hours
and that with four fifteen-minute back-to-
the-ship rest periods, so you actually work
only three hours and spend half that time
getting in and out tlie air-lock. But those
are union rules, and no asteroid mining
outfit tries to chisel on them.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that
talk is cheap on one of those work crews.
With most of the day to do nothing else,
you listen to some real whoppers, stories
that would make the old-time Liars Clubs
back on earth seem like Sunday-school
meetings. And if your mind runs that way,
you’ve got plenty of time to think up some
yourself.

Charlie Dean was on our crew, and
Charlie could tell some dillies. He’d been
on Mars back in the old days when there
was still trouble with the holies, and when
living on Mars was a lot like living on
Earth back in the days of Indian fighting.
The holies thought and fought a lot like
Amerinds, even though they were quad-
rupeds that looked like alligators on stilts —
if you can picture an alligator on stilts —
and used blow-guns instead of bows and
arrows. Or was it crossbows that the
Amerinds used against the colonists?

Anyway, Charlie’s just finished a
whopper that was really too good for the
first tryout of the trip. We’d just landed,
you see, and were resting up from doing
nothing en route, and usually the yarns
start off easy and believable and don’t
work up to real depth-of-space lying until
along about the fourth week when every-
body’s bored stiff.

“So we took this head holic,” Charlie
was ending up, “and you know what kind
of flappy little ears they’ve got, and we put
a couple of zircon-studded earrings in its
ears and let it go, and back it went to the
others, and then darned if — ” Well, I
won’t go on with Charlie’s yam, because it
hasn’t got an)q;hing to do with this story
except that it brought earrings into the
conversation.

When Charlie’d finished, Zeb Werrah
stood up and sniffed.

“Air’s getting kind of bad in here,” he
said. “Reckon I’ll go out and get my first
shift over with. Anybody want to come?”

Ray went with him — our tug had equip-
ment for only two men to work outside at
a time — and the rest of us helped them into
suits and out the lock, and then settled
down for some more talk, there being noth-
ing else to do. Zeb’s remark about the air
had been just a crack at Charlie’s story, of
course.

“How’d you happen to have zircon ear-
rings along?” Blake Powers asked Charlie,
when things had quieted down again. Blake
was skipped for the voyages, but now that
we were anchored down on our asteriod, he
was just one of the boys, until we took off
again.

“In with the slum for trading,” Charlie
said. “When you’re going to any place
in the system that might be inhabited and
you don’t know by what kind of critters,
you take a little of almost everything. You
never know what’s going to strike the fancy
of any civilized or semi-civilized race you
might hit.

“It might be mirrors — I’ve known dime-
store mirrors to bring in twice their weight
in radium salt — or it might be paper clips or
harmonicas, or salted peanuts or plaster
statuettes.” He turned to me and said,
“You know that. Hank. You’ve been on a
‘first’ trip or two. So have you, Blake.”

B lake nodded. “I remember I
was on the crew of the ship that
landed first on Phobos. You know what the
Phobonians turned out to be like, of course.
They had about everything we had, and
damned if we could do a lick of trading
until the captain of our ship put something
back in a box and happened to put a rubber
band around the box. They went nuts;
they’d never seen anything that had elas-
ticity. Rubber or anything like it simply
wasn’t known on Phobos. We managed to
find a few dozen rubber bands in the ship’s
office and practically bought out Phobos
with them.

“One of the crew was wearing old-
fashioned suspenders with elastic in them,
and he traded them for a bucket of Phobo-
nian sele-stones. Had to hold up his pants
with a piece of rope for the rest of the trip.

AND THE GODS LAUGHED 107

but when he got back to Earth he was
rich. Me, I was wearing a belt. I’ve worn
suspenders ever since, but I never got back
to Phobos. Not that it would matter if I
did; Interplanet’s doing a regular trade in
rubber there now, and it’s down to twenty
credits a pound or thereabouts.”

Blake shook his head gloomily and then
turned to me. He said, “Hank, what went
on Ganymede ? You were on that ship that
went out there a few months ago, weren’t
you — the first one that got through? I’ve
never read or heard much about that trip.’'

“Me either,” Charlie said. “Except that
the Ganymedeans turned out to be human-
oid beings about four feet tall and didn’t
wear a thing except earrings. Kind of
immodest, wasn’t it?”

I grinned. “You wouldn’t have thought
so if you’d seen the Ganymedeans. With
them, it didn’t matter. Anyway, they didn’t
wear earrings.”

“You’re crazy,” Charlie said. “Sure, I
know you were on that expedition and I
wasn’t, but you’re still crazy, because I had
a quick look at some of the pictures they
brought back. The natives wore earrings.”

“No,” I said. “Earrings wore them."

Blake sighed deeply. “I knew it, I knew
it,” he said. “There was something wrong
with this trip from the start. Charlie pops
off the first day with a yarn that should have
been worked up to gradually. And now
you say — Or is there something wrong with
my sense of earring?"

I chuckled. “Not a thing, Skipper.”

Charlie said, “I’ve heard of men biting
dogs, but earrings wearing people is a new
one. Hank, I hate to say it — ^but ' just
consider it said.”

“Anyway, I had their attention. And
now was as good a time as any.

I said, “If you read about the trip, you
know we left Earth about eight months
ago, for a six-months’ round trip. There
were six of us in the M-94; me and two
others made up the crew and there were
three specialists to do the studying and ex-
ploring. Not the really top-flight special-
ists, though, because the trip was too risky
to send them. That was the third ship to
try for Ganymede and the other two had
cracked up on outer Jovian satellites that
the observatories hadn’t spotted from
Earth because they are too small to show
up in the scopes at that distance.

“When you get there you find there’s
practically an asteroid belt around Jupiter,
most of them so black they don’t reflect
light to speak of and you can’t see them
till they hit you or you hit them. But
most of them — ”

“Skip the satellites,” Blake interrupted,
“unless they wore earrings.”

“Or unless earrings wore them" said
Charlie.

“Neither,” I admitted. “All right, so
we were lucky and got through the belt.
And landed. Like I said, there were six of
us. Lecky, the biologist. Haynes geolo-
gist and mineralogist. And Hilda Race,
who loved little flowers and was a botanist,
egad! You’d have loved Hilda — ^at a dis-
tance. Somebody must have wanted to get
rid of her, and sent her on that trip. She
gushed; you know the type.

“And then there was Art Willis and Dick
Carney. They gave Dick skipper’s rating
for the trip; he knew enough astrogation
to get us through. So Dick was skipper and
Art and I were flunkies and gunmen. Our
main job was to go along with the special-
ists whenever they left the ship and stand
guard over them against whatever dangers
might pop up,”

“And did anything pop?” Charlie de-
manded.

“I’m coming to that,” I told him. “We
found Ganymede not so bad, as places go.
Gravity low, of course, but you could get
around easily and keep your balance once
you got used to it. And the air was breath-
able for a couple of hours ; after that you
found yourself panting like a dog.

“Lot of funny animals, but none of them
were very dangerous. No reptilian life;
all of it mammalian, but a funny kind of
mammalian if you know what I mean.”

B lake said, “I don’t want to know
what you mean. Get to the natives
and the earrings.”

I said, “But of course with animals like
that, you never know whether they’re dan-
gerous until you’ve been around them for
a while. You can’t judge by size or looks.
Like if you’d never seen a snake, you’d
never guess that a little coral snake was
dangerous, would you? And a Martian
zeezee looks for all the world like an over-
grown guinea-pig. But without a gun- —

108 PLANET

or with one, for that matter — I’d rather
face a grizzly bear or a — ”

“The earrings,” said Blake, “You were
talking about earrings.”

I said, “Oh, yes ; earrings. Well, the na-
tives wore tliem — for now. I’ll put it that
way, to make it easier to tell. One earring
a piece, even though they had two ears.
Gave them a sort of lopsided look, because
they were pretty fair-sized earrings — like
hoops of plain gold, two or three inches in
diameter.

“Anyway, the tribe we landed near wore
them that way. We could see the village —
a very primitive sort of place made of
mud huts — from where we landed. We had
a council of war and decided that three of
us would stay in the ship and the other
three go to the village. Lecky, the biologist,
and Art Willis and I with guns. We didn’t
know what we might run into, see? And
Lecky was chosen because he was pretty
much of a linguist. He had a flair for
languages and could talk them almost as
soon as he heard them.

tt^T^HEY’D heard us land and a bunch
X of them — about forty, I guess — met
us half-way between the ship and the vil-
lage. And they were friendly. Funny peo-
ple. Quiet and dignified and acting not at
all like you’d expect savages to act toward
people landing out of the sky. You know
how most primitives react — either they
practically worship you or else they try to
kill you.

“We went to the village with them — ^and
there were about forty more of them there ;
they’d split forces just as we did, for the
reception committee. Another sign of in-
telligence. They recognized Lecky as
leader, and started jabbering to him in a
lingo that sounded more like a pig grunt-
ing than a man talking. And pretty soon
Lecky was making an experimental grunt or
two in return.

“Everything seemed on the up and up,
and no danger. And they weren’t paying
much attention to Art and me, so we
decided to wander oflF for a stroll around
outside of the village to see what the coun-
try in general was like and whether there
were any dangerous beasties or what-not.
We didn’t see any animals, but we did see
another native. He acted different from the
others — ^very different. He threw a spear

STORIES

at us and then ran. And it was Art who
noticed that this native didn’t wear an
earring.

“And then breathing began to get a bit
hard for us — ^we’d been away from the ship
over an hour — so we went back to the vil-
lage to collect Lecky and take him to the
ship. He was getting along so well that he
hated to leave, but he was starting to pant,
too, so we talked him into it. He was
wearing one of the earrings, and said they’d
given it to him as a present, and he’d made
them a return present of a pocket slide-rule
he happened to have with him.

“ ‘Why a slide-rule ?’ I asked him. ‘Those
things cost money and we’ve got plenty of
junk that would make them happier.’

“ ‘That’s what you think,’ he said. ‘They
figured out how to multiply and divide
with it almost as soon as I showed it to
them. I showed them how to extract
square roots, and I was starting on cube
roots when you fellows came back.’

“I whistled and took a close look to see if
maybe he was kidding me. He didn’t seem
to be. But I noticed that he was walking
strangely and — well, acting just a bit
strangely, somehow, although I couldn’t
put my finger on what it was. I decided
finally that he was just a bit over-excited.
This was Lecky’s first trip off Earth, so
that was natural enough.

“Inside the ship, as soon as Lecky got
his breath back — ^the last hundred )^rds
pretty well winded us — he started in to tell
Haynes and Hilda Race about the Gany-
medeans. Most of it was too technical
for me, but I got that they had some
strange contradictions in them. As far
as their way of life was concerned, they
were more primitive than Australian bush-
men. But they had brains and a philosphy
and a knowledge of mathematics and pure
science. They’d told him some things about
atomic structure that excited hell out of
him. He was in a dither to get back to
Earth where he could get at equipment
to check some of those things.

“And he said the earring was a sign of
membership in the tribe — they’d acknowl-
edged him as a friend and compatriot and
what-not by giving it to him.”

Blake asked, “Was it gold?”

“I’m coming to that,” I told him.
I was feeling cramped from sitting so long

A]\D THE GODS LAVGHED 109

in one position on the bunk, and I stood up
and stretched.

There isn’t much room to stretch in an
asteroid tug and my hand hit against the
pistol resting in the clips on the wall. I
said, “What’s the pistol for, Blake?”

He shrugged. “Rules. Has to be one
hand weapon on every space-craft. Heaven
knows why, on an asteroid ship. Unless
the council thinks some day an asteroid may
get mad at us when we tow it out of orbit
so it cracks up another. S’ay, did I even
tell you about the time we had a little
twenty-ton rock in tow and — ”

“Shut up Blake,” Charlie said. “He’s
just getting to those damn earrings.”

“Yeah, the earrings,” I said. I took the
pistol down from the w'all and looked at it.
It was an old-fashioned metal project
weapon, twenty-shot, circa 2000. It was
loaded and usable, but dirty. It hurts me
to see a dirty gun.

I went on talking, but I sat back down
on the bunk took an old handkerchief out
of my duffle-box and started to clean and
polish the hand-gun while I talked.

I said, “He wouldn’t let us take the ear-
ring off. Acted just a little funny about it
when Haynes wanted to analyze the metal.
Told Haynes he could get one of his own
if he wanted to mess with it. And then he
went back to rhapsodizing over the superior
knowledge the Ganymedeans had shown.

“Next day all of them wanted to go to
the village, but we’d made the rule that
not more than three of the six of us would
be outside the ship at once, and they’d have
to take turns. Since Lecky could talk tlieir
grunt-lingo, he and Hilda went first, and
Art went along to guard them. Looked
safe enough to work that proportion now —
two scientists to one guard. Outside of
that one native that had thrown a spear at
Art and me, there hadn’t been a sign of
danger. And he’d looked like a half-wit
and missed us by twenty feet anyway. We
hadn’t even bothered to shoot at him.

“They were back, panting for breath, in
less than two hours. Hilda Race’s eyes
were shining and she was wearing one of
the rings in her left ear. She looked as
proud as though it was a royal crown
making her queen of Mars or something.
She gushed about it, as soon as she got her
wind back and stopped panting.

“I went on the next trip, with Lecky
and Haynes.

“Haynes was kind of grumpy, for some
reason, and said they w'eren’t going to put
one of those rings in his ear, even if he did
want one for analysis. They could just
hand it to him, or else.

"Again nobody paid much attention to
me after w'e got there, and I wandered
around the village. I w'as on the outskirts
of it when I heard a yell — ^and I ran back
to the center of town but fast, because it
sounded like Haynes.

“There w'as a crow’d around a spot in
the middle of — well, call it the compound.
Took me a minute to w^edge my way
through, scattering natives to all sides as
I went. And wdien I got to the middle of
things, Haynes was just getting up, and
there was a big stain of red on the front of
his wdiite linen coat.

“I grabljed him to help him up, and said,
Tlaynes, what’s the matter? You hurt?’

“He shook his head slowdy, as though he
was kind of dazed, and then he said, T’m
all right. Hank. I’m all right. I just
stumbled and fell.’ Then he saw me look-
ing at that red stain, and smiled. I guess
it was a smile, but it didn’t look natural.
He said, ‘That’s not blood. Hank. Some
native red wine I happened to spill. Part
of the ceremony.’

tCT STARTED to ask what ceremony,

A and then I saw he was wearing one of
the gold earrings. I thought that was damn
funny, but he started talking to Lecky,
and he looked and acted all right — well,
fairly all right. Lecky was telling him
what a few of the grunts meant, and he
acted awful interested — but somehow I got
the idea he was pretending most of that
interest so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.
He acted as though he was thinking hard,
inside, and maybe he was making up a
better story to cover that stain on his
clotlies and the fact that he’d changed his
mind so quick about the earring.

“I was getting the notion that some-
thing was rotten in the state of Ganymede,
but I didn’t know wliat. I decided to keep
my yap shut and my eyes open till I
found out.

“I’d have plenty of time to study Haynes
later, though, so I wandered off again to
the edge of the village and just outside it.

110 PLANET

And it occurred to me that if there was
anything I wasn’t supposed to see, I might
stand a better chance of seeing it if I got
under cover. There were plenty of bushes
around and I picked out a good clump of
them and hid. From the way my lungs
worked, I figured I had maybe a half hour
before we’d have to start back for the ship.

“And less than half that time had gone by
before I saw something.’’

I stopped talking to hold the pistol up
to the light and squint through the barrel.
It was getting pretty clean, but there were
a couple of spots left up near the muzzle
end.

Blake said, “Let me guess. You saw
a Martian traag-hound standing on his
tail, sing Annie Laurie.’’

“Worse than that,’’ I said “I saw one
of those Ganymede natives get his legs
bit off. And it annoyed him.”

“It would annoy anyone,” said Blake.
“Even me, and I’m a pretty mild-tem-
pered guy. What bit them off?”

“I never found out,” I told him. “It
was something under w’ater. There was
a stream there, going by the village, and
there must have been something like croc-
odiles in it. Two natives came out of the
village and started to wade across the
stream. About half-way over one of them
gave a yelp and went down.

“The other grabbed him and pulled him
up on the other bank. And both his legs
were gone just above the knees.

“And the damnedest thing happened. The
native with his legs off stood up on the
stumps of them and started talking — or
grunting — quite calmly to his companion,
who grunted back. And if tone of voice
meant anything, he was annoyed. Nothing
more He tried walking on the stumps of
his legs, and found he couldn’t go very
fast.

“And then he gave a gesture that looked
for all the world like a shrug, and reached
up and took off his earring and held it
out to the other native. And then came
the strangest part.

“The other native took it — and the very
instant the ring left the hand of the first
one — the one with his legs off — he fell
down dead. The other one picked up the
corpse and threw it in the water, and went
on.

“And as soon as he was out of sight I

STORIES

went back to get Lecky and Haynes and
take them to the ship. They were ready
to leave when I got there.

“I thought I was worried a bit, but I
hadn’t seen anything yet. Not till I started
back to the ship with Lecky and Haynes.
Haynes, first thing I noticed, had the
stain gone from the front of his coat.
Wine or — whatever it was — somebody’d
managed to get it out for him, and the
coat wasn’t even wet. But it was torn,
pierced. I hadn’t noticed that before. But
there was a place there that looked like a
spear had gone through his coat.

“And then he happened to get in front
of me, and I saw that there was another
tear or rip just like it in back of his coat.
Taken together, it was like somebody’d
pushed a spear through him, from front
to back. When he’d yelled.

“But if a spear’d gone through him like
that, then he was dead. And there he was
walking ahead of me back to the ship.
With one of those earrings in his left ear
— and I couldn’t help but remember about
that native and the thing in the river. That
native was sure enough dead, too, with his
legs off like that, but he hadn’t found it
out until he’d handed that earring away.

CAN tell you I was plenty thought-

A ful that evening, watching everybody,
and it seemed to me that they were all
acting strange. Especially Hilda — you’d
have to watch a hippopotamus acting kit-
tenish to get an idea. Haynes and Lecky
seemed thoughtful and subdued, like they
were planning something, maybe. After a
while Art came up from the glory hole and
he was wearing one of those rings.

“Gave me a kind of shiver to realize
that — if what I was thinking could pos-
sibly be true — then there was only me
and Dick left. And I’d better start com-
paring notes with Dick pretty soon. He
was working on a report, but I know pretty
soon he’d make his routine inspection trip
through the storerooms before turning in,
and I’d corner him then.

“Meanwhile, I watched the other four
and I got surer and surer. And more and
more scared. They were trying their darn-
dest to act natural, but once in a while
one of them would slip. For one thing,
they’d forget to talk. I mean, one of them
would turn to another as though he was

AXD THE GODS LAUGHED 111

saying something, but he wouldn’t. And
then, as though remembering, he’d start
in the middle of it — like he’d been talking
without words before, telepathically.

“And pretty soon Dick gets up and goes
out, and I followed him. We got to one
of the side storerooms and I closed the
door. ‘Dick,’ I asked, ‘have you noticed
it?’ And he wanted to know what I was
talking about.

“So I told him. I said, ‘Those four
people out there — they aren’t the ones we
started with. What happened to Art and
Hilda and Lecky and Haynes? What the
hell goes on here? Haven’t you noticed
anything out of the ordinary ?'

“And Dick sighed, kind of, and said,
‘Well, it didn’t work. We need more prac-
tice, then. Come on and we’ll tell you all
about it.’ And he opened the door and
held out his hand to me — ^and the sleeve
of his shirt pulled back a little from the
wrist and he was wearing one of those
gold things, like the others^ only he was
wearing it as a bracelet instead of an ear-
ring.

“I — well, I was too dumbfounded to
say anything. I didn’t take the hand he
held out, but I followed him back into the
main room. And then — while Lecky, who
seemed to be the leader, I think — ^held a
gun on me, they told me about it.

“And it was even screwier, and worse,
than I’d dare guess.

“They didn’t have any name for them-
selves, because they had no language —
what you’d really call a spoken or written
language — of their own. You see, they
were telepathic, and you don’t need a lan-
guage for that. If you tried to translate
their thought for themselves, the nearest
word you could find for it would be “we”
— the first person plural pronoun. Indi-
vidually, they identified themselves to one
another by numbers rather than names.

“And just as they had no language of
their own, they had no real bodies of their
own, nor active minds of their own. They
were parasitic in a sense that earthmen
can’t conceive. They were entities, apart
from — Well, it’s difficult to explain, but
in a way they had no real existence when
not attached to a body they could animate
and think with. The easiest way to put
it is that a detached — uh — earring god,
which is what the Ganymedean natives

called them — was asleep, dormant, inef-
fective. Had no power of thought or mo-
tion in itself.”

Charlie and Blake were looking be-
wildered. Charlie said, “You’re trying to
say. Hank, that when one of them came
in contact with a person, they took over
that person and ran him and thought with
his mind but — uh — kept their own iden-
tity? And what happened to the person
they took over?”

I said, “As near as I could make out,
he stayed there, too, as it were, but was
dominated by the entity. I mean, there
remained all his memories, an,d his indi-
viduality, but something else was in the
driver’s seat. Running him. Didn’t mat-
ter whether he was alive or dead, either,
as long as his body wasn’t in too bad shape.
Like Haynes — they’d had to kill him to
put an earring on him. He was dead, in
that if that ring was removed, he’d have
fallen flat and never got up again, unless
it was put back.

“Like the native whose legs had been
cut off. The entity running him had de-
cided the body was no longer practicable
for use, so he handed himself back to the
other native, see? And they’d find an-
other body in better shape for him to use.

“They didn’t tell me where they came
from, except that it was outside the solar
system, nor just how they got to Gany-
mede. Not by themselves, though, because
they couldn’t even exist by themselves.
They must have got as far as Ganymede
as parasites of visitors that had landed
there at some time or other. Maybe mil-
lions of years ago. And they couldn’t get
off Ganymede, of course, till we landed
there. Space travel hadn’t developed on
Ganymede — ”

C HARLIE interrupted me again, “But
if they were so smart, why didn’t
they develop it themselves?”

“They couldn’t,” I told him. “They
weren’t any smarter than the minds they
occupied. Well, a little smarter, in a way,
because they could use those minds to
their full capacity and people — ^Terrestrial
or Ganymedean— don’t do that. But even
the full capacity of the mind of a Gany-
median savage wasn’t sufficient to develop
a spaceship.

“But now they had ns — I mean, they

112 PLANET

had Lecky and Haynes and Hilda and Art
and Dick — ^and they had our space-ship,
and they were going to Earth, because they
knew all about it and about conditions
there from our minds. They planned,
simply, to take over Earth and — uh — run
it. They didn’t explain the details of how
they propagate, but I gathered that there
wouldn’t be any shortage of earrings to
go around, on Earth. Earrings or brace-
lets or, however, they’d attach themselves.

“Bracelets, probably, or arm or leg
bands, because wearing earrings like that
would be too conspicuous on Earth, and
they’d have to work in secret for a while.
Take over a few people at a time, without
letting the others know what was going
on.

“And Lecky — or the thing that was run-
ning Lecky — told me they’d been using
me as a guinea pig, that they could have
put a ring on me, taken me over, at any
time. But they wanted a check on how
they were doing at imitating normal peo-
ple. They wanted to know whether or
not I got suspicious and guessed the truth.

“So Dick — or the thing that was run-
ning him — ^had kept himself out of sight
under Dick’s sleeve, so if I got suspicious
of the others. I’d talk it over with Dick —
just as I really did do. And that let them
know they needed a lot more practice ani-
mating those bodies before they took the
ship back to Earth to start their campaign
there.

“And, well, that was the whole story and
they told it to me to watch my reactions,
as a normal human. And then Lecky took
a ring out of his pocket and held it out
toward me with one hand, keeping the pis-
tol on me with the other hand.

“He told me I might as well put it on
because if I didn’t, he could shoot me first
and then put it on me — ^but that they
greatly preferred to take over undamaged
bodies and that it would be better for
me, too, if I — ^that is, my body — didn’t
die first.

“But naturally, I didn’t see it that way.
I pretended to reach out for the ring,
hesitantly, but instead I batted the gun out
of his hand, and made a dive for it as it
hit the floor.

“I got it, too, just as they all came for
me. And I fired three shots into them be-
fore I saw that it wasn’t even annoying

STORIES

them. Damn it, the only way you can
stop a body animated by one of those rings
is to make it fix it so it can’t move, like
cutting off the legs or something. A bul-
let in the heart doesn’t w'orry it.

“Biit I’d backed to the door and got out
of it — out into the Ganymedean night, with-
out even a coat on. It was colder than
hell, too. And after I got out there, there
just w'asn’t any place to go. Except back
in the ship, and I w’asn’t going there.

“They didn’t come out after me — didn’t
bother to. They knew that vdthin three
hours — four at the outside — I’d be uncon-
scious from insufficient oxygen. If the
cold, or something else, didn’t get me first.

“Maybe there was some way out, but I
didn’t see one. I just sat down on a stone
about a hundred yards from the ship and
tried to think of something I could do.
But—”

I DIDN’T go anywhere with the “but —
and there was a moment’s silence, and
then Charlie said, “WeU?”

And Blake said, “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I couldn’t think
of a thing to do. I just sat there.”

“Till morning?”

“No. I lost consciousness before morn-
ing. I came to while it was still dark,
in the ship.”

Blake was looking at me with a puzzled
frown. He said, “The hell. You mean — ”
And then Charlie let out a sudden yip
and dived head-first out of the bunk he’d
been lying on, and grabbed the gun out
of my hand. I’d just finished cleaning it
and slipped the cartridge-clip back in.

And then, with it in his hand, he stood
there staring at me as though he’d never
seen me before.

Blake said, “Sit down, Charlie. Don’t
you know when you’re being ribbed? But
— uh — ^better keep the gun, just the same.”

Charlie kept the gun all right, and turned
it around to point at me. He said, “I’m
making a damn fool out of myself all
right, but — Hank, roll up your sleeves.”

I grinned and stood up. I said, “Don’t
forget my ankles, too.”

But there was something dead serious
in his face, and I didn’t push him too far.
Blake said, “He could even have it on
him somewhere else, with adhesive tape.

AND THE GODS LAVGHED

I mean on the million-to-one chance that
he wasn’t kidding. . .

Charlie nodded without turning to look
at Blake. He said, “Hank, I hate to ask
it, but—”

I sighed, and then chuckled. I said,
“Well, I was just going to take a shower
anyway.”

It was hot in the ship, and I was wearing
only shoes and a pair of coveralls. Pay-
ing no attention to Blake and Charlie, I
slipped them off and stepped through the
oilsilk curtains of the little shower cubicle.
And turned on the water.

Over the sound of the shower, I could
hear Blake laughing and Charlie cursing
softly to himself.

And when I came out of the shower,
dr)dng myself, even Charlie was grinning.
Blake said, “And I thought that yarn
Charlie just told was a dilly. This trip
is backwards; we’ll end up having to tell
each other the truth.”

There was a sharp rapping on the hull
beside the airlock, and Charlie Dean went
to open it. He growled, “If you tell Zeb
and Ray what chumps you made out of us.
I’ll beat your damn ears in. You and
your earring gods. . . .”

P ORTION of telepathic report of No.

67843, on Asteroid J-8^A to No.
5463, on Terra:

"As planned, I tested credulity of ter-
restrial mhids by telling them the true
story of what happened on Ganymede.

Found them capable of acceptance
thereof.

This proves that our idea of embedding
ourselves within the flesh of these terres-
trial creatures was an excellent one and is
essential to the success of our plan. True,
this is less simple than our method on
Ganymede, but we must continue to per-
form the operation upon each teirestial
being as we take him over. Bracelets or
other appendages ivould arouse suspicion.

There is no necessity in wasting a month
here. I shall now take command of the
ship and return. We w'ill report no ore
present here. The four of us who will
animate the four terrestials now aboard
this ship Kill report to you on Terra. . . .”

113

PS 's feature
flash

P LASHING you the highlig;hts on one of the

cosmic-minded writers who help to nourish
Planet Stories and the Vizigraph.

OUR LOONEY LAD!

Dispensing with the usual remarks about how
young I was when I was born, I’ll fish merrily
through the hazy pages of my alleged memory,
pass the results through my home-made censor,
and proceed without further ado.

Though our home has always been on dear
old Ledgewood, I have spent my share of time
in other states, which, in deference to their
respective reputations, I shall not name here.

My introduction to stfantasy came several
years ago when, more by accident than anything
else, I found myself in possession of a stf. maga-
zine and nothing to do. I began to read to kill
time, but soon was engrossed completely by the
fascinating fiction which reposed between a glar-
ing cover and an ad telling me that’ I didn’t have
to worry about rupture. When I had finished, I
had become the owner of a far-away look in my
eyes. Yes, the ultimate horror had overtaken
me — I was a science fiction fan. For several days
I rushed about in mad ecstasy, feverishly buying
up every magazine of this type currently gracing
the newsstands. Such was my introduction to
stfantasy — and Planet Stories.

Since that happy day, I have built up a collec-
tion of some 500 magazines, ranging back to the
old Wonder Stories.

Personal items : (Otherwise known as brag-
ging) I am 6 feet 2 inches in height, weigh about
163, and have muscles of steel. (Somewhat rusty
steel, but still steel.) A growth of brown hair
adorns my cranium, and the same color seems to
apply to my eyes. I love all sports, having, in
my short but evil life, organized a knothole team,
played full-back on the school football team, first
base on the baseball team, and so on. Also enjoy
swimming and tennis a good deal. Age; Not yet
old enough to enlist in the army.

' And now, if I may. I’d like to get a bit more
serious for a moment. I am very sincere about
science-fiction. I like to think of it as a sort
of faith in the future ; a thin hut steady beam of
light pointing the way out of this dark world we
live in to a better world to come. We all have a
job to do, and when it’s over we’ll all have to
pitch in and try to make the world of the future
the kind of place about which we science-fiction-
ists love to dream.

My favorite authors are too many to mention
here, but I sorta favor Merritt, Clark Ashton
Smith, Burroughs, Binder, Kuttner, and Cum-
mings. Favorite artists seem to be Paul, Leyden-
frost, Bok, Finlay and Law'rence.

In closing. I’ll just say thanks for this oppor-
tunity to blab a bit about myself. I sincerely
think that Planet is the best magazine out, and
I hope we go a long way together.

Chad Olh'er.

8 — Planet — Spring

And so the meeting place of the Vizifanners is open again,
bringing kicks and kudos, bombs and bouquets for everybody
who contributes to Planet Stories. We’ve new let^ writers,
along with our old standbys — ^and we hope that you’ll enjoy
reading this group of letters which we have selected for ^is
issue.

We received many other letters, some of which we will hold
for future issues. BUT many had to hit the wastebasket, for
they were illegiblly written in pencil, and the necessary editing
could not be done on them. VVe’re sorry about that, but rules
are rules. Double spaced, typewritten letters preferred, and the
length is limited to three pages. Follow those simple direction,
don’t be hoggish, and more people will be represented herein.

Rememter, these pages are not for the men alone. We like to
receive letters from the fair sex; for Planet Stories is edited
for an audience of both men and women.

So read these missives. Get sore, be amused, be interested.
But above all — write us your own opinions. If you can take it,
then dish it out. No holds are barred, other than good taste.
We like you fans, and ^ve want you to build this book into the
publication you want it to be.

The fact is — we dare you to write.

Aside from that, here’s the result of the Winter voting. Each
of these winners will receive an original, if each will drop a post-
card or letter indicating his choice from the Fall Issue.

1. Alan Maimion 2, William Conover 3. Ray Karden

WISHFUL THINKING!

2232 N. W. Irving,
Portland, Ore.

Dear Peacock: „ .

You really don’t know how much entertainment you afforded
me by using my alter-ego, the Space Falcon, as the hero of your
yarn in the Fall issue of Planet. I’d had an idea that a series
of yarns about such a character— a space pirate — might go over
pretty well, if the adventure and ray gun angle wasn’t relied on
too heavily. Sadly, the story itself wasn’t any too good. I would
have liked to have seen Frederic Arnold Kummer, Jr., the mas-
ter of adventure science-fiction, get hold of this.

Really, though, don’t you think I am entitled to something or
other in appreciation for dreaming up the Falcon. I hate to be
childish, but the Rozen cover wouldn’t go over badly with me —
the original, that is. . . . , .

(You get thanks. The Falcon first appeared about 12 years

^By the way, did you ever stop to think that the first letters of
the two words. Space Falcon, also stand for — science-fiction.
Damnably clever of me, wasn’t it?_ , , , t i i •

Before passing judgment on this issue, I feel I should explain
my new rating system. Oliver has his, Hetschel has a modified
version of the same one, but mine is quite differeiff. I rate
stories with the one to five unit method. A story which I rate as

114

THE VIZIGRAPH

0.0 is strictly from com- Hack personified. A 1.0
yarn is quite poor but readable, 1.5 units classify
it in that dim region somewhere on the border line
between a poor and “fair” yarn, and a 2.0 unit
tale is one that, while definitely not superior, is
still “pretty good.” 2.5 units indicates a story as
average, 3.0 as good, 3.5 as very good, and 4.0 as
a lesser, or minor, classic. A 4.5 unit rating is the
classic position, while a 5.0, or perfect, story em-
bodies those few — those cherished few — stories in
my collection that I can call — “super-classics.”

So here we go with the Hunter rating system —
first the cover. 4.5 units. Virgil Finlay and G. J.
Rozen are the only two artists who, in my opinion,
can combine a semi-nude, lady-in-^stress, picture
with a science-fiction theme and still make the
magazine attractive to both the ardent fan and
the news-stand scanner. Bear this in mind when
using future covers of this type, said type being
the only kind you use anyway.

The interior illustrations average up to ex-
actly 3.0, an improvement over the last two issues.
The two Bob Leydenfrost pictures average 2.75,
which certainly isn’t as good as his “old man.”
Personally I think the fans are being a little quick
on the trigger when they say he is as good, or
nearly as good, as the elder Leydenfrost.

With an average of 3.25, Doolin managed to
take top honors this time, while Rubimor stands
at 2.5. He may, with a little more practice, de-
velop into a good artist. He seems to show
promise.

The Ringers take four units, bringing to a close
the extra-curricular subjects, and we’ll now get
down to the stories themselves. Personally, I
sometimes wonder why you run stories at all.
Why not publish a magazine full of the Ringer
Family’s antics, and call it Gifford Comics? Oh,
you don’t like it, eh?

Miss Brackett, redeeming herself for Citadel of
Lost Ships, takes first place this time, with three
units. Thralls of the Endless Night was quite a
bit better than many of the other “frontier-planet”
stories now flooding the market.

2. Rez'enge of the Vera. 2.5. Hasse turns out
nice adventure.

3. Phantom Oui of Time. Also a 2.5 unit story.
Bond’s policy of mass production may be quite
successful from a financial standpoint, but his
popularity is certainly suffering.

4. Prey of the Space Falcon. 2.5. This could,
as I have said before, have been handled better.
But it should definitely be made into a series.

5. Message from Mars. 2.0.

6. Mutiny in the Void and Assignment on
Venus. Both 2.0 unit stories.

That gives you an average of — diet’s see — ex-
actly 2.8 units, as compared to 2.093 for March
and 2.580 for May. I hope you continue to rise,
especially now that you have returned to quarterly
publication.

Although I never rate letter sections, the Vizi-
graph is excellent this time, probably because I
didn’t appear in its pages. 'Top place is easily
decided, and goes to our N. B. C. character de-
lineator, Wilms Herbert. Leonard Marlow is
second, with a very timely and interesting letter,
which I will comment on a little later._ Third
place is reserved for Vaughan Ralph Heiner, de-
spite the fact that I agree with practically nothing
he says. His letter was one of good, half-serious
criticism, the like of which should be seen more
often.

(Honest, Peacock, I’m trying to keep this down
to one and a half pages, which would equal three
double-spaced ones, but I can hardly unburden my

115

soul to an editor in less than two and a half
single-spaced pages.) (Run on, little man. Ed.)

To comment on the letters individually, we skip
over to Paul Carter’s good one, which would have
rated an illustration in most columns, but I
thought some of the others a trifle better. How-
ever, the gentleman should receive some sort of
extra-terrestrial award for that choice bit of
dialogue between hero and villain. I have a
notion to frame it and hang it above my desk, but
a window occupies that space. Have to do some-
thing about that.

To Miss Fredersdorf, I give the following
advice: You’d better become a little more experi-
enced in reading science-fiction before you attempt
to point out which plots are original and which
ones are stale. That man-turns-out-to-be-robot-
in-the-last-paragraph thing is strictly from cum-
mings, and indeed, a stock idea with that gentle-
man. I could say that, as a spiritualist, James
Russel Gray is just medium, but that will prob-
ably Ire pulled by many other punsters, so why
should I spoil their fun— or pun.

If Planet remained a bi-monthly publication,
I would agree with Chad Oliver about serials, but
three months is too long to wait. I suppose that
I am one of those “crackpots” who have “insulted,
panned and jeered” ray cummings about whom
Chadwick refers, but although I cannot bring my-
self to even spell his name with capital letters, I
don’t pick his stories apart because this or that
word appears too often.

From Oliver to dePina in one easy lesson. At
last— at long last, we have an author who is not
afraid of endangering his popularity by offering
criticism. And I’m not saying that just because
he voted for me, either. (Although it shows he
recognizes literary talent, bright Staff Sergeant
that he is.)

Marlow’s letter was quite interesting, and I
have taken it to heart. Witness this letter, for
instance. I’m even sending it air mail in hopes
you can substitute it for my letter about the May
issue which has either been discarded altogether,
or held over for next time.

So what do you say we take Leonard’s advice.
Real humor is always appreciated, but after all,
too much is — ^well, too much. Get hold of your-
selves, readers, and make the Vizigraph even bet-
ter than it is now.

That concludes the reader’s column this time,
except for your note at the beginning. Editorial
stuffiness, my pet zwilnik! You certainly are a
long ways from having the best magazine on the
market, but you certainly are the friendliest.

In closing, if you do see fit to award me Rozen’s
painting and with this letter I should happen to
be picked for one of the winning spots on the
sweepstakes, just give my position thereon to the
next highest. _Oh well, it’s nice to end a letter
with a little wishful thinking.

Scientifictionally yours.

Gene Hunter,

The original Space Falcon.

WE’RE WIDE OPEN-
IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE!

Earl Carroll Theatre Restaurant,
Hollywood, Cal.

Dear Editor:

Since Planet seems preponderantly to be a
“man’s” magazine. I’m wondering just how wide
is your editcfrial “Door” to feminine readers of
Science Fiction.

As you will undoubtedly see by the letterhead,

116 PLANET

I am a show girl, dividing my time between Earl
Carroll’s Theatre, and medium roles at Metro-
Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. Such a background
hardly ties in with science fiction; however, you
would be surprised at the number of Thespians,
both major and minor, who read science fiction
for “escape.” Yes--I might as well have the
courage to come out with it. Escape fiction is in
the ascendant — no one knows that better than you,
an Editor. And of all escape fiction, PlaSet and
one other rival publication have the finest to be
had. Recently I wrote you a brief letter, when
lo and behold, one of your writers arrived next
door, and in uniform! So, with heighteiied in-
terest I make my debut as far as Planet is con-
cerned with a serious letter.

Beginning with the cover (perhaps the loveliest
ever had), your Fall issue was for the most part
superb. Your own lead novel. Prey of the Space
Falcon, topped the list in quality, with an intricate
and skillfully evolved plot that never for a mo-
ment lost its quality of suspense. I could deeply
understand the motives of your heroine — women,
being paradoxical are like that, even to the ulti-
mate switch of allegiances which brought about
the final thrilling closing of the story. I took a
long time to decide which story really deserved
second place, and after carefully weighing all
pros and cons, came to the conclusion that Leigh
Brackett’s Thralls of the Endless Night deserved
that place of honor — Miss Brackett has a superla-
tive imagination, and a rich vein of feeling that
imparts a glow of genuine warmth to all she
writes. I truly believe that she is one of your
two finest writers, judging from what I have
read thus far. The other one is Albert de Pina,
whom very recently I had the pleasure of meet-
ing. Oh yes, I know you have a long list of top
notchers — Nelson S. Bond, Henry Kuttner, Ross
Rocklynne, Henry Hasse, Carl Jacobi, Clifford
Simal^ Charles Tanner, and a host of others —
but if I may be permitted airing my predilections,
those two mentioned above are my favorites. Of
course, I haven’t mentioned you, but then, you are
the editor — you need no fulsome praise — your edi-
torial toga is a proof of your literary excellence.
(So there — ^you scoffers 1 Ed.)

"rhe rest of the names I have mentioned, which
formed a real science fiction galaxy, are all first
rate — I would be the last to deny how many hours
they have given me of real pleasure. But all of
us have our private admirations.

My choice for third in the Fall issue is a tie.
Both Message from Mars by Simak, and Assign~
ment on Venus, by Jacobi, were excellent — I
couldn’t make up my mind which I liked bpt.
Nelson S. Bond’s Phantom Out of Time failed
because it was really an elaboration of a double
theme that I have often read in the three years
I’ve been reading science fiction. It was well done,
of course, but lacked that spark of originality
that lifts a story out of the commonplace. I’m
worried about Bond 1 He used to be one of my
favorites, but although he has appeared in nearly
every issue of Planet, he seems to be following
the drab and dingy road of the “Hacketeers!"

And now for the truly marvelous Winter Issue.
At last you have given us what we so long have
hoped for and had come to believe was not possible
— a novel that has science, magnificent characteri-
zation, a description of Earth in the future so
vivid that I lived every moment of. it, and a
unique ending that was inspiring because of the
superb spirit of sacrifice for an ideai — Freedom —
that both Terrans and Panadurs possessed.
Palanth, the dandified Martian Explorer, was

STORIES

sheer delight, and the girl was one of those hero-
ines that are living, breathing beings, not a mere
propo, and all too rare in STF. The Star Guards-
man, by Albert DePina, will long be remembered
as one of the finest stories in the science-fiction
realm. My vote for second goes to Guy Gifford,
the irrepressible humor of his cartoon rates it.
Third was Conspiracy in Callisto, by James
MacCreigh. Although only a novelet, its excel-
lence of style, and dialogue, plus a beautifully
handled plot leaves it uncontested. It was a de-
lightful change from the usual plot. Forgive me,
perhaps I am just dense, and my critical faculties
are not very sound, but it seemed to me that your
lead novel, Crypt-City of the Deathless One by
Henry Kuttner, was devoid of science, far from
clean-cut, and written in such a slip-shod style,
that it sounded like a re-hash of stuff written well
and badly for the last twenty years 1 I’ve only
been reading STF three years, but the old, back
numbers I’ve been able to obtain, had some of this
sort of thing. Also, there were so many present
day exclamations, like “on the beam," (end of
second column, page 8), and “So what?” not to
speak of at least fifteen (count them!) “Okay’s"
and a plethora of Oh yea’s and “Swell," that
made me wince whenever I came to them — and
all the characters talk the same! It was a stupen-
dous flop ! The illustration for it however, was
very good. I hope this letter is not too long.
With best wishes, I remain.

Very truly yours,

June Harris,

INVENTIONS YET!!!

Frederick Street
Oceanside, N. Y,

Dear Editor;

Here’s my coat. Well, didn’t you agree to hold
that coat of anybody who would challenge the
Zwilnik to battle? (You war-monger, you. . . .)
Well, here’s my coat. When I first set eyes
(Mine, of course) on your pitiful plea for help. I
needed no more to push my amazing brain into
answering it. All for the sake of Justice, says I.
You’ll get my bill in the morning.

Returning to that obnoxious cur, the Zwilnik :
This creature is apparently composed of three
sub-creatures; namely Vaughan, Ralf, and
Heiner. Therefore I shall make out declarations
of war against all three :

Declaration of War against
Vaughan . . . signed, J. N. P. Harrington
Ralf . . . signed, J. N. P. Harrin^on
Heiner . . . signed, J. N. P. Harrington
Yes ... to all that know him, Joseph Neil
Patrick Harrington is . . . The Fizikal Rek! I
am willing to duel the Zwilnik on his own terms ;
namely, with Z-rag guns, though I far prefer my
own weapons, the amazing Triphorous Pistols.

When you press the trigger of this wonderful
invention, three things happen. First, the victim
is pounded to death by a barrage of the sister-who-
is-just-learning-how-to-cook biscuits. Second, a
shield shoots up from the magazine of the weapon
to prevent the user from seeing the bloody mess
and fainting. Third, a portable stretcher drops
out and carries the corpse to the nearest morgue.
I am perfecting a more effective version of this
gun, which is known as the Quadrophorous Pistol.
This operates in the same manner except that it
embalms the corpse en route to the Morgue.

Now I’ve done it! I’ve gotten myself started,
and cannot stop until I describe to you a number
of my other inventions. First of all, I do all of
my traveling by one of my better inventions

THE VIZIGRAPH U7

known as the Amphidestriaa This is a small
device which fits into the back i»cket like a ciga-
ret pack, for I have condensed it to a very small
size.

Upon tiring of using up his Number 18 Cou-
pons, because of athlete’s foot or other reasons
(could be he’s just plain lazy) the person who is
fortunate enough to own an Amphidestrian simply
stops walking and loosens his belt buckle. Because
of its weight in the back pocket, the invention
is suddenly let down a short distance, which
action throws a miniature switch inside which
starts it working.

First, a special spray device releases a quantity
of H2S04, or to those who aren’t chemically
minded . . . sulfuric acid. This burns away the
back of the pocket, leaving the Amphidestrian
free to function. First, a small but potent pin is
thrust meaningly into the part of the person’s
anatomy which happens to be nearest. This causes
the fellow to give vent to a war-whoop which
would make a Cherokee brave cower in shame.
(This serves as a warning for other pedestrians
to get out of the way) at the same time leaping
high in the air. When he comes back down to old
terra firma, the Amphidestrian is in action 1

From the acid-eaten hole, two tubular metal
legs project themselves ; and it is on these that the
person lands. The legs start going places. If it
isn’t in the right direction . . . well no invention
is perfect!

Inside the tubular legs are king-size hornets.
When the Amphidestrian nears a body of water,
these ambitious little devastators see what is com-
ing and, not wanting to bathe their delicate wings,
storm up the tubes. These legs, by the way, lead
directly to an opening in the invention, on the
same side as the pin. Thus the person using the
Amphidestrian, already wounded where he least
likes it, gets a double attack in the same place.

He gives like Superman. This new leap throws
another tiny switch which sends top balloons
down the tubular legs to the end, where they are
inflated by compressed air. Thus, the guy-who-if-
he - was -wise - would - have - stayed - on - his -
Number-18’s lands safely on the surface of the
water, held up by the balloons.

By the time the peppered pedestrian reaches
some foreign shore after balancing his punctured
carcass aloft on the Amphidestrian, he gets down
by again loosening his belt. This throws the little
switch inside the device back to its normal posi-
tion, and everything folds up . . . whoosh!!

Should he he dope enough to try it again, he
just starts all over again by loosening his belt
buckle. After three or four such trips the poor
sap is going to get slapped into the hoosegow, as
he can’t keep loosening his belt without drastic
results. There is a law or two against indecent
clothing, and undershorts are considered inde-
cent, I hear.

Then there is my masterpiece . . . that Inven-
tion of Inventions . . . the extraordinary Spitzel-
goozenhidten. This is fantastically marvelous,
there is nothing else like it. As yet I have not
figured out what the contraption will do, but let
me tell you that whatever it is . . . it is amazing.

That is enough, I think, as I want to keep you
in suspense as to the rest of my super-inventions.
Fancy that . . . I’ve forgotten all about Planet
Stories and the Zwilnik.

Zwilnik, are you following me? Frightfully
sorry, old chap, but I must have left you bumping
around in the dark at the nineteenth paragraph.
Oh, this is the nineteenth? Then stop bumping,
here I is.

Zwilnik, you cad 1 (he said, throwing out his
chest and catching it on the first bounce) Name
the time, place, and weapons . . . I’ll there 1
No you don’t . . . trying to have this duel on
your terms, eh? You snake-in-the-bushes ! I'll
do the naming!

Time . . . next ish of PS
Place . . . PS, of course

Weapons ... a pair of deadly Underwood type-
writers. i

And now, dear Editor, I bid youse Achoo . . .
er, adieu. My cell-block is being disilluminated
for the night, you see, and so . . .

Possibly yours,

J. N. P. Harrington,
The Finical Rek.

POET’S CORNER!

84 Baker Ave.
Dover, N. J.

Dear Editor:

I’ll now borrow something from Oliver (Chad).
The Viz needs some poetry, even though bad.
Kuttner has always been one of my faves ;

His novel in Planet entitled to raves.

Blackout by Farrell wasn’t so hot.

To me it occurs that that plot is all rot.

Pardon me, pliz, while I choke in disgust.

That ancient idea’s really covered with dust.
But the novelet by James McCreigh
Came right thru and saved the day.

The short story written by Editor P.

Had a twist to its plot that electrified me.

’Twas better than most of the filler in Planet ;
Some o’ your shorts are so bad I can’t stan’ h.
A1 DePina rates an “A.”

His yarn was truly luscious, eh?

But best of all this time was Bond.

Of his great tales I’m always fond.

Wool-dyed dis-gun fans may reprove.

But as for me, ’twas in the groove.

Your mag this time has lots of Doolin ;

He ain’t so gruelin’ now, no foolin’.

Who’s that on pages 4 and S?

Rubimor ? The pic looks alive !

If it’s Mr. R., he’s getting better.

I’ll compliment him in this letter.

That cover was an awful mess ;

A jumble of colors — formless, I guess.

I’m shocked, I’m astounded, I’m horrified,
yessir 1

Can it be that the Viz had no letter by Lesser ?

Where’s Jay Chidsey in the Viz?

He’s a chap who makes things whiz.

Conover’s plan about tossing in fantasy,

Might be somewhat fun for a fantasy fan to
see (III! Zounds! Gimme air!)

Alas, on the surface the thought might seem
grand,

But havoc would reign if it got out of hand.

'G. Waible, the Asinine One,

Overused the corny pun.

First to Mannion, who’s serious.

How much better than delirious !

Second to the Looney Lad.

That verse of yours was funny, Chad!

Give a pic to the Darkness Dweller.

Elliot is quite some feller.

Get the guys who trim the hedges,

To come and trim PS’s edges.

Untrimmed edges often rip.

As thru FS you gaily flip.

118 PLANET

Come on, Wilbur! What’s your racket?

How ’bout a novel done by Brackett?

In case tliis should happen to break into ink,

Let everyone know : as a Poet I .

That’s all for now (ain’t I a goon?)

Don’t celebrate — I’ll be back soon!

Sincerely,

Joe Kennedv.

POET CORNERED!

Dear Joe:

There’s many a time when an editor gets

As looney as some of the Vizi pets.

Then he gets a letter written in rhyme,

And has himself a gorgeous time.

He edits the thing for readers to see;

Then makes bad meter, like this, to thee.

So Peacock shocked and DePina’s an A ;

And Blackout failed, was saved by MacCreigh 1

Kuttner came through, in his usual style ;

But Bond was the leader by a doggoned mile.

And the pics were knocked by your master
hand ;

Well, the cover had form (arf!) you’ll under-
stand.

But we haven’t the time to comment any more ;

We’ve a new mag to edit — e’en better than
before.

So write us again, when you can spare the time.

Your poetry , but we like the rhyme.

Cordially,

The Editor.

EXACTLY AS RECEIVED!

September IS, 1943
Denver, Colorado

De.\r Editor:

I’m going to do something which you can’t do
for political reasons ; I’m going to take a crack at
those smart alecks who grace your Vizigraph.

Collectively, they’re a bunch of childish school-
age brats whose training and mental processes
certainly do not warrant the assured air of knowl-
edge which they try to flaunt.

First, not one of tjiem knows what a plot is.
I’ve read the childish rantings, read their glow-
ing bits about the “plots” of certain stories; and
know as well as you that the stories had only
the barest outlines of plots.

Secondly, I’ve seen them tear to pieces finely-
plotted stories with the inane expression that
such plots have been done to death.

Their essential stupidity is reflected in their
very words — for they confuse plot and situation
hopelessly, not knowing the difference, not really
caring, content to bathe their immature egos in
their schoolboyish illy-conceived missives to which
they attach their names. They gain a certain
amount of notoriety by thus liaving their letters
printed — ^but they are of the type of person who
can’t resist endorsing cheap cure-all nostrums
just to have their pictures and names spread out
on the printed sheet.

A situation is the thing which is happening to
the protagonist. A plot is the extension of the
situation in all of its ramifications, showing the
intricate means by which a climax is reached. _ A
situation may be old, but the plotting and writing
must of necessity be fairly fresh, for memories
are long and editors super-critical. •

I’ve seen them eulogize the science of various
stories, yet failed to find the slightest trace of
science in them. And to the other- extreme, I’ve

STORIES

seen them disregard the science in other stories,
while praising the adventure that paced the para-
graphs.

Let’s take two examples.

First, Nelson S. Bond’s The Colossus of Chaos.

This was called a perfect science story.

It failed immeasurably, both in science and
character value.

I shall give two instances.

First, the growth of the monster from purely
electrical forces is basically unsound, for matter
must be produced from matter, not from energ;y
alone.

And the killing of the monster insulted the
reader’s intelligence. When lifted from the
planet, he would not have shrivelled, still alive,
to doll size, but rather, his flesh (?) would have
sloughed or rotted away, not dissipating into pure
energy as it apparently did.

Yet that was a “scientific” story.

On the other hand, let’s take that effort of
yours, Prey of the Space Falcon.

It has a plot, intricately devolved and inte-
grated, and the motivations of the characters were
clear-cut and natural. It was written in the ad-
venture style,_ for it was basically adventure — yet
it had its sociological side, too.

But the science was the nicest part of it. The
metabolism part of your story was pure science,
colored up for your readers, but straight from
any standard text-book.

The food angle was the perfect answer to the
changes which are taking place every day in our
eating habits. _ The pseudo-science of the ray
guns, space ships, et al, are strictly from science
fiction’s conceptions of what the future holds in
store for us.

Yours is the science story; Bond’s the adven-
ture . . . Yet I will make you a personal bet that
tlie turgid minded adolescents who fill your letter
columns will vote those stories in just the oppo-
site order.

As for the other scientific knowledge those
readers have. Hell, they wouldn’t recognize sci-
ence if it were crammed down their throats. Too,
in their opinionated assishness, each thinks that
Planet should be edited for his especial benefit.
They comment upon the pictures, saying con-
dpcendingly that such and such an artist shows
signs of promise and to please give him another
chance. Hell, those artists may not be the best
in the world, but not one but couldn’t outdraw or
outpaint any of the self-appointed critics.

And as for the stories in general. Certainly,
many of them are hack. So what? Hack stories
are the mainstay of every magazine in existence.
All stories (as you once said somewhere) cannot
be classics ; in fact, if the average was fair, you
would be getting more than your share of good
stories written. I have always heard that the
doers do — and the can’t-doers knock the efforts
of their betters. Let the critics write and sell
their stories before they take it upon themselves
to tear to pieces the works of men and women
whose efforts are finitely above their own.

_ The smug conceit of those writers (I will men-
tion no names) who set themselves as paragons
of criticism, and who believe that their words or
“vanity columns” in various fan sheets should be
the law, is somehow amazing. It gives those
adolescents their true age, for their criticisms and
ratings are childish to a degree.

I have no quarrel with any of them personally ;
but as a whole, I think their thoughts and letters
should be better conceived before being sent in.
Some of the writers are intelligent men and

THE VIZIGRAPH 119

women commenting upon the things which inter-
est them. But the majority are egotistical self-
praising little fools whose only interest lies in
seeing their names printed in nationally-circulated
magazines.

Planet Stories is neither the best nor the
worst of the science fiction magazines on the
stands today. Unluckily, you must deal with a
certain class of reader with which most magazines
do not have to contend. Irregardless of the
stories or pictures you buy, you will be criticized.
I know, for I edited a magazine for eleven years
(one whose circulation was probably ten times
that of Planet’s) and I know the problems
which you naturally face. But as your competi-
tor (John Campbell, Jr.) once said in a fan
publication: It wouldn’t matter a damn if all the
fan clubs folded, or if they blacklisted any one
magazine. For the sales records would not show
the difference. Fans are essential only to them-
selves and their mutual back-patting egos.

Let them have their fun, let them write their
letters. But don’t take them too seriously. Their
level of intelligence is not high, which is self-
admitted. And in reality, they do little harm.

And as a closing word. Letter writers have
your fun with me, vent your spleen, build up
your egos — but admit to yourself that the fore-
going is true. I shall not go into correspondence
with any of you, nor shall I make a rebuttal to
anything which you have to say.

If you see fit to print this, do so. Please do
not cut. And my regards to the moronic little
boys (if exception, state age) who live only to
see their names in print because of overweening
egos.

Sincerely,

E. F. Buchanon.

UNRATiONED MEAT

Okay, Vizifanners, Buchanon is your meat.
Agree or disagree, as you see fit. We have no
editorial comments to make upon the meat of his
letter other than to reiterate you’re a nice bunch
of fellows, albeit you do get out of hand now
and then. Our personal apologies for parallels
drawn — for we think Bond is tops.

Cordially,

The Editor.

WE’D LIKE TO READ MORE!

927 Crescent Heights Blvd.

Los Angeles, California

Dear Mr. Peacock ;

Seems like every issue of Planet is better and
better. I don’t know of any magazine I enjoy so
much. You give us such a wide variety of stories
that there is something for all tastes.

I liked the Star Guardsman best of all because
I lost myself in it, the story was so real. I was
glad that Europa could be free even at such a
great sacrifice from the poor Panadars. The hero,
Mark Lynn, was wonderful, and different from
the usual hero.

Mr. Kuttner’s story was good, but I could not
get myself into the story of Crypt City like I
could into The Star Guardsman. Your story was
third only because it was shorter than the other
two. Mr. Bond was next, taking fourth place,
Gifford’s cartoon was the best yet. Hope you can
read this. (We can — and write again. Ed.)

Mrs. Terez Duna.

THREE YEARS OF MARTYRDOM!

2302 Avenue O

Brooklyn, New York

Dear Editor:

Phalanx upon phalanx of broad-shouldered
young Terrans march endlessly down an awful
path that leads to where no man can say. Who
are these pitiful martyrs, marching — ever march-
ing? And what is the pitrpose of their strange
martyrdom? Upon close examination, we see
that a good percentage of them are the creative
work of a human named Drake. Others are the
results of work by such Terrans as Rozen, Gross,
Finlay, Paul, Leydenfrost, Anderson and Saun-
ders. All of the grim marchers are quite definitely
dead. Again — what has caused this grim
martyrdom ?

Well, Wilbur (friendly cuss, ain’t I) it’s
this way. For three years now, the cover of
Planet has been nothing more or less than a
stamping-grounds for the eternal triangle of hero,
heroine and villain. All of the villains (usually
B.e.m.s) have appeared rather ridiculous; all of
the ferns had expressions upon their faces as if
they had seen their first ancestors come to life;
and all, or at least a good part of, the men would
have died, if the very next scene were to be
pictured.

Now, sir, why this senseless slaughter of those
broad-shouldered Terrans? They, sir, are march-
ing inexorably onward until you change the cover
theme on PS. And, to sum all this up, and put
my cards down on the table : Give us a scientific,
spaceship cover ! ! !

Now that that is off my mind, I have just
one more complaint to utter, and then, as the letter
to an ed inevitably states, “we can go on to
brighter things.” The complaint, however, is
quite imjiortant. Of late, the caliber of the art-
work in Planet has dropped to its lowest since
pretty near the very beginning. Let’s have some
changes, eh? Bok, I believe, is available. Finlay
most assuredly is. Why don’t you get these lads
to do some work for you? ’Twas just a thought,
just a thought 1

It has been a long time, indeed, since I have
been able to make the statement I am about to
make. Every story, ed, in the latest Planet fig-
ured as at least good! !! And that, I might add,
is a bit of sen-sation-al-is-m I And how 1 At any
rate, here is how a list of the six stories would
look, in their order of merit — if, that is, all fans
were as clever as I (am clever). Yes. . . .

Since the long dead days of Binder’s immortal
Vassals’ saga there has not been a truly great
classic to grace the pages of Planet. At long
last, however, we have one. Henry Kuttner has
“dood it” with Crypt-City of the Deathless One.
Whoever, incidentally, sneaked that title in under
your guardian eye, O Ed, has done something
mighty un — un — ^well, un-something-or-other. Ugh
— never again! The conversation carried on in
this classic was startling in itself. Most conver-
sation in science-fiction drools down until it is
at a low state resembling Mid- Victorian literature.
(Not that I have anything against Shakespeare
and the rest, but — you’ll have to admit, times
have changed.) Kuttner is the man to give us
vastness and scope. Kuttner is the man to give
us realism, Kuttner is the man to let us escape
into the lives of his characters. Kuttner, I
might add, is the man for you to get more stuff
from. And more, more, and more. . . .

A1 DePina’.s sequel to Panadur was very good.

120 PLANET

and really built up a Universe all its own for the
reader to live in, and to be thrilled by. I’d like
to see more like Star Guardsman, and more by
this author.

Some fan sources have been hinting lately that
Nelson S. Bond has been grinding out with
“hack personified.” This, for the most, is not
true. Castaways of Eros was different from
anything I’ve read in stfiction in a long, long
time. The pioneering was given in a different,
and most enjoyable, fashion.

’Twould be unfair to rate the remaining three
stories against each otlier because all were un-
deiuably good and just about par with one an-
other. Perhaps the edge should be given, Wilbur,

to your own yarn. Destination Death. I

rather liked the ending. The plot of Farrell’s
(?) Blackout has been used before by Giles
(nom de plume, I believe, of Binder) in a short
some time back called The Winkinff Lights of
Mars. MacCreigh’s Conspiracy on Callisto was
also good, though, the handling could liave been
better.

All in all, with the exception of the art (and the
cover), this was, indeed, a banner issue. Before
I forget, let’s have more of the characters in
Star Guardsman. They were thoroughly enjoy-
able. Particularly, need I add, Palanth.

And, as all sane people go cowering away to
burrow fearfully into their caves, I say, in the
voice of grim doom, “on to tlie Viz !” Alan
Manion (oops, with two “n’s” please) is away
and in front of the mob with by far the best
letter. I only hope, and somehow trust, that he
was sincere in what he said. More power to you,
Alan.

Oliver takes number two, even though I
laughed rather uncontrollably when I saw that he
would think highly of a Cummings’ yarn per
week. I like the way he attempted to settle the
femme problem. Sadly, wisdom (mine, pal) tells
me that that is one thing that never will be
decided. Ah, well. ...

Paul Carter is always around with a mighty
good letter. Give him number three, and let
him become an egotist along with the rest of us.

Gifford’s Ringer was cute. The pic, however,
is still a lot cuter than the jokes(?) (Jokes?)

Thanx to the fans who voted me in to third
and thus gave me an original illustration. More
power to novels, and to any artist that can draw.
And remember those poor martyrs of the cover
situation. Don’t let them down.

Almost forgot to mention that I think Conover’s
Off Trail Idea hits the spot. Swell.

Yup, next time. I’ll be around, bothering you as
usual. Hope you can take it. One of these days
one of us will crack under the strain.

Yotirs till an ed publishes one of my stories,
(eternity, eternity??? Argh!)

Scienti fantasincerely.

Milt Lesses,

The Happy Genius.

QUESTIONS, ALWAYS QUESTIONS

R. D. 3

Mansfield, Ohio

Dear Editor:

The first glimpse of the Winter issufc of P. S.
afforded me consideraible amusement concerning
those readers who dislike the hero-hcroine-mon-
sler theme, because here it is again. What new
adjectives will they think up to describe their
disgust? It was a very neat job, .'however, on

STORIES

artist Gross’s part, though I am still unable to
figure out which story it was supposed to repre-
sent.

As for interiors, the tiny one on p. 3, of the
ragged lad plugging the Tyrannosaur or what-
ever, was best, with Rubimor (apologies to Chad
Oliver) taking second, although who are the
semi-invisible laldies charging the hero with his
gun pointed the wrong way who was supposed to
be under the dais — oh well, the robot was nice
anyway. The other interiors were inferior.

My rating system is very unusual, as it runs
from one to ten. (No one seems to have thought
of that yet.)

1. Crypt — City of the Deathless One by Henry
Kuttner. Very suspenseful and exciting, and it’s
too bad Garth couldn’t have had the robot get him
out of the trap or something, but that would have
spoiled the bum-makes-good angle and the story.

2. Castaways of Eros by Nelson S. E^nd
Bond’s excellent characterization and neat plot
twist rate bouquets, but I have a weakness for
novels.

3. The Star Guardsman by Albert de Pina.
Rather slow getting started, but wound up in a
blaze of glory. The manner in which de Pina
shuttles human brains around, however, was no
less than alarming.

4. DestirMtion — Death by-you-know-who. Sorry
we couldn’t have gone a little higher this time,
Ed., but thanx for giving us a setting on Uranus
for a change, ans^way. I’m getting sick of Mars
and Venus.

5. Conspiracy on Callisto— hy James Mac-
Creigh. Plot and style stereotyped. Why are
Ganymede and Callisto used so frequently in sci-
ence fiction, anyway?

6. Blackotit — by Joseph Farrell. About the
forty-ninth story I have read by that title. These
short-shorts never pack much punch as far as I
am concerned. I like more room for thought.

Give Alan Mannion first in the letter dept for
his dissertation on the cure of our social ills via
science fiction, Chad Oliver second for his poem,
and Joe Connell third for his unusual style.
Style?

Conover misses by a hair, but that’s not much
consolation, is it? His suggestion for an off-
the-trail story each issue was excellent, however.
Let’s keep the ball rolling, Vizifannersl

Incidentally how will Chad Oliver rearrange
his high octave rating system if a real master-
piece comes along?

And, oh yes I More editorial comment would
not be too obnoxious ! ( Some readers no like !

Ed.)

Sincerely,

Dale Ridgeway.

SPACE CRUISE!

Box 131

Hoquiam, Wash.

Dear Mr. Peacock:

My take-off blast dwindling to an inaudible
murmur, I turned once again to the Message that
had come singing into my communicator panel.
It seemed as though Simak himself had intended
that its import reach only my eyes, as though
Mars had its secret for my purpose alone. By
this I knew it must be top of the important list
of things that take up my time on such an im-
portant cruise to The Planet.

But now I was besieged by that famous scourge
of the IP, the dauntless Falcon. His exploits
range up and down the spaceways, wherever his

THE yiZIGRAPH 121

Prey beat the downtrodden masses into oblitera-
tion. Seeing my wholehearted approval of his
actions, I was allowed to continue on my way, to
the next of my duties.

For now no Bond held me, although the Phan-
tom reappeared from time to time, as though to
run a close second to the Falcon. The vagrant
thought occurred to me that it should be referred
to as Space-time, occupying, as it did, a different
continuum than that of time alone. But the essence
of it was reminiscent of olden times.

The Assignment now facing me on Venus
seemed a deep problem indeed, and I was con-
tinually on edge for the final outcome. To say
the least, the final arrangement was a good and
complete surprise. Jacobi, the assignee, ^ had
planned so well, and fully, that I was left with a
deep feeling of contentment. I found myself
wishing for more assignments from his capable,
time-proven hands.

Before I could get my bearings, the Endless
Night had surrounded me. I was enthralled to
such an extent that a millenium seemed to slip
by unnoticed. Although the action within was
swift, I was still left with a feeling of lassitude
and contentment that aided my past feelings for
the pilot. Brackett could have even done better,
but on the whole, it was gaining the edge in our
race over past cruises.

Ere we could turn to useful tasks. Revenge
reared its ugly head, to be lessened by the knowl-
edge that a great injustice had been done. Vera
must be avenged. What steps and time must be
spent in preparation, for the one and only attei^t
must not fail. Perhaps a bit more explanation
should be given in such preparations, but the
sum of all did exact the toll to complete satisfac-
tion.

With this came the unpleasant suddenness of
the dread of the spaceways. Mutiny 1 We quickly
marshalled our forces against this outrage, and
outraged it was. With a few well placed Mentons,
the mind-over-matter destroyers, the ill-planned
Mutiny was overcome. Tanner had planned bet-
ter escapades than that 1

So with landing blasts roaring out their song
of finality, we quickly scanned the last minute
communications implanted across the Vizigraph,
and without hesitation picked the most important
ones. Heiner, Carter, and James Gray.

Ah! Yes, the sun Rozen spread all its glory
over the whole Planet, and should never set to
doomsday. The glory only dimmed upon our land-
ing, as we hoped for longer assignments for the
next and ensuing cruises.

Sincerely,

Thomas R. Daniel.

A NEW GREMLIN?

26 Horatio Street
New York 14, N .Y.

Dear Editor ;

I have discovered a new kind of Gremlin!
These pesky little mites carry blue pencils, and
lie in wait somewhere between the Editor’s desk
and the linotype machines. They take a story,
which the Editor has OK’d, and cut h— out of
it 11 Take Star Guardsman, for instance. _ Now
we know that de Pina can write! He gives us
pulp-eaters real “slick-paper style’’ — clever de-
scription, excellent characterization, carefully
sustained suspense, smooth transitions, and hence
a well-balanced story. Then the Gremlins get at
it. They strike out whole paragraphs which
contribute to aforesaid smoothness. And what

happens? We read along, grinning a bit happily
at the “slick" style, — and allofasudden* we get a
feeling like hitting an air-pocket while riding a
2-seater trainer plane. Mentally it is a loud
“PLOP !’’... emotionally it is a pure shock . . .
actually it is a crying shame. De Pina must be
furious; I know / am. Ye Goode Editor must
also be furious . . . unless . . .!! No, of course
not; OUR Editor wouldn’t — couldn’t— do such a
thing. Or could you? Please, WSP, tell us it
was the GREMLINS, and not you, who so ob-
viously mutilated a grand story. And then set
traps for those &%##$*♦%# Gremlins ! 1
(Gremlins, by gad! Ed.)

Star Guardsman was all anyone could ask for
in a science-fiction tale. It was a winner right
from the first paragraph. Its “pace” was so good
that I didn’t believe it could hold up right to the
finish, but it did, except for where the Gremlins
got at it. It had scope — “vastness” — action —
significance — even “love-interest.” It was so
good I almost forgave you for printing the Kutt-
ner . . . ah . . . “thing” . . . which had NO sig-
nificance that I could find. Kuttner is a good
writer ; I’ve read some of his tales that made me
want to stand up and cheer. But this Crypt —
thing, made me want to give it a Bronx cheer. It
made lots of noise in spots ; in fact it practically
rattled; and the love-interest was dragged in by
the hair. When I’d finished reading it I had that
“SO WHAT?” feeling. Shame on Kuttner for
sloppy writing, and shame on you for letting him
get away with it. I could forgive a “budding”
writer, but Kuttner can write — so such messy
stuff is unforgivable. You can’t blame that on
the Gremlins 1 It was maudlin, that’s what it
was. Maudlin mush, and thud and blunder . . .
mostly blunder.

The “balance” of the Winter issue was fine:
two Novels, two Novelets, and two Shorts. Both
shorts had that economy of situation which makes
any short breath-takingly good. Both had ironic
denouements. The triumph of Right over Wrong
in your Destination — Death was handled very
well 1 Congrats! The irony of Blackout gave
a tug at my heart — and made me hope for
the day when War will be recognized for the
social-cancer which it is, and the “blackout” of
man’s advancing enlightenment will no longer be
necessary. So, give Venusian Orchids to Pea-
cock and Farrell 1 (And a tankfull of Hydrogen
Sulfide to Kuttner; the odor would match his
story perfectly.)

I liked both Novelets. And that brings up the
subject of love interest in Science -Fiction. It
seems to me that Chad Oliver, in his Viziletter,
has the right idea about that. I’ve read a lot of
growls from fans who think that the Men-of-the-
Future will park their emotions in a museum
along with celluloid collars and 16-button high
shoes. But I doubt it. We may change a lot in
the next 1000 — or 10,000 — ^years, but I’U bet _a
Finlay original against a creased rejection slip
that the love between men and women will not
change ; except possibly to become finer and more
wholesome. So, it will still be a powerful motiva-
tion, — and as such has its place in any story with
any scope at all. I’d naturally object to seeing
love-interest injected into a story just to capture
an additional 500 thrill-hungry readers, but when
it is given its proper significance, as one of the
motivating factors in man’s striving for a better
world, I say it “belongs” in the story. Why
bother to explore the planets, or make Earth a
finer place to live on — ^unless there’s a Mom and
Pop and, the Kids to do that living? And you

122 PLANET

can bet that Mom and Pop are going to be
sweethearts before they get hitched — or the “finer
world” is going to have a couple of important
cogs missing.

The love interest in Conspiracy on Callisto did
not “intrude” ; but added to the suspense (which
is quite a trick!) and to the “happy ending.”
And in Castaways of Eros it was definitely a
powerful force; sweeping away the petty, selfish
rivalry of the two families, and uniting them
against the impersonal greed of the United Ores
Corporatioa It was “natural” ; not forced, or
dragged in. It made the story more logical, rather
than less so. So why not have love interest in a
s-f yarn, if it belongs in the situation described?

In The Star Guardsman, the growing affection
between Mark Lynn and the gal-scientist proves
my point ; women and men may aspire to greater,
finer positions in the scheme of things — but they
will still be men and women, responding to that
urge to unite their lives and purposes which is
the very force insuring the continuation of ^e
!fece ; — ^and whether this is inspired by a loving
“God”— or by a cold and impersonal “Plan” — ^the
fact remains that it is soli And at no time did
the love interest in The Star Guardsman intrude
itself unnecessarily. The characters in this story
were far, far advanced beyond man as he is now
— but thw were nevertheless human for all ttet,
and so I say : Give an extra dozen Venusian
Orchids to DE PINA for that; the very best —
you know — the ones which grow on that floating
island near Venus’ North Pole. And a tubfull of
scallions (Mars’ low -canal variety) to those
Gremlins who mutilated the smoothness of the
story. (SURE I believe in Gremlins; — I’ve got
to— I can’t believe that “Our Editor” would ex-
cise any part of such a slick tale, for “Our Ed.”
is an author himself, and he should know better
— so it MUST have been the Gremlins. (Them
-^r type lice! Ed.)

Are your illustrators afraid to sign their work?
The sexy damsel in the illustration for Kuttner’s
story rates a whistle — you know the kind; two-
syllabled, with downward inflection on the second
syllable. The rest of the illustrations were OK —
nothing “sensational”— but better than past issues.

The Visigraph was “tops” this issue 1 ! 1 This
dep’t rates higher in interest-value than many of
the stories you’ve published. Leigh Brackett’s
letter was so good I yelped with delight when I
read it. It is true that Miss Brackett does an
occasional yarn which is below par (as who
doesn’t!) but her work shows that she is con-
scious of an author’s responsibility to present a
socially-constructive theme. I don’t mean “propa-
ganda” — but a story based on the idea that
democracy has a bright future — ^and a finer,
cleaner future than any other form of gov’t we’ve
yet seen. Brackett and de Pina always seem to
write with this responsibility in mind — and I say
more power to them 1 I’m glad she took a sock
at those fascist-minded “critics” (?) who fail to
see the rights of “minorities.” Them’s my senti-
ments exactly. Miss B., give ’em both barrels.
For sheer content, her letter rates an easy “first.”

I’m also glad that Bill Conover has decided on
the “straight-from-the-shoulder” style — the VIZI
is the one dep’t in all pulpdom where a fan can
“talk straight.” Nice going. Bill! Let’s have
some more of the same. ,

Paul Carter writes a darn swell letter ; plenty
of thought, and a minimum of smart cracks.
That’s the kind of letter I really like to read.

Guy Gifford writes as well as he draA^’s ; which
is plenty OK.

STORIES

In plain English, friend Wilbur, I think that
the VIZI is the “warmest,” most natural and sin-
cere “fan dep’t” in ANY mag., anywhere. And
for that, dear Editor, ORCHIDS TO YOU.
Your interest and encouragement has produced
a sincere, interested, and interesting “fraternity”
of friendly fans. THANX! To “sum” up”: de
Pina was way out in front, — Kuttner was way,
way behind ; — arid everything else in the issue
rated “good.” Incidentally, I considered Destina-
tion — Death a considerable improvement over
some of the earlier stories of that Peacock feller!
Y ep, he’s really getting better ’n’ better !

With kindest regards to you, and warmest
greetings to my fellow-Vizifans, I am.

Sincerely,

Alan Mannion.

SENSIBLE COVERI

1109 S. 22nd Street
Milwaukee 4, Wisconsin

Dear Editor:

Sorry to hear you must once more return to
the quarterly issue, but that is better than no
Planet Stories at all.

First, let me vote on the best letter. James R.
Gray’s suits me fine. I’m an Asimov fan myself.
(Aside to Mr. Gray; Isaac hath taken unto him-
self a wife and a defense job ... he will prob-
ably return to writing after the war.)

As for the Stories :

First : Message from Mars ... I yamma sucker
for these Martian yarns.

Second: Prey of the Space Falcon and Thralls
of the Endless Night. I’m not trying to curry
favor with -ye ed. The guy is really good. But
Leigh is also good. What to do? What to do?
The action in the first and the atmosphere in the
second make it impossible to put one of these
before the other.

Third: Mutiny in the Void. I was so glad to
see Tanner back again I couldn’t resist putting
this next.

Fourth: Phantom Out of Time. A dead hero
grows on one. This one snuck up and made me
list him fourth. Indeed he almost caught me
sooner.

Fifth: Assignment on Venus . . . Some good
ideas in this. I particularly liked the mold gun.
A logical venusian weapon.

Sixth: Revenge of the Vera. If Hasse hadn’t
killed off the original Vera this might have rated
higher with me. But too much tragedy makes
me mad at the guy who makes his characters
suffer.

And now for the pictures: I must say a word
for the cover. It is the first sensible cover I have
seen on Planet Stories in so long that I almost
fainted when I saw it. However, like all covers
it is not adapted to the story. Note the workman-
ship of the man’s knife and belt buckle, also the
temperature adjuster at the girl’s waist . . . quite
out of tune with the savages of the story. "They
had no such science and arts. And where did he
get that gun, egad? But I must compliment
Rozen on a piece of excellent work. Personally,
I think that picture nice enough and logical
enough to go in anyone’s parlor, which you must
admit, most covers wouldn’t. The best inside
illish was Rubimor’s for Phemtom. Gifford’s
cartoon was delightful. Why not get him to
illustrate some of your stories for you?

Sincerely,

Nanek.

THE VIZIGRAPH

WEINSTEIN’S GOAT!

568 Audubon Ave.

New York City

Dear Editor:

The Viz fans have finally gotten my goat,
especially HEINER, THE ZWILJERK. My
gosh, the way he writes, you’d think someone had
a gun in his back and MADE him buy P.S. ! By
^m, if I were you. Dear Eid., I’d print his letter
in invisible ink I Why that moron, and all the
other morons, including Milt, the lesser genius,
or should I say screwball, should be berled in erll
Since they’re so good in criticizing, let’s see
them have a story that they wrote published in
a mag!

I’m not saying they should stop writing, but at
least they can say somethin good about a story.
As for me I think that P. S. is a swell mag., and
that the stories (most of them) are darn swell,
and, since they can’t do better, just shut up and
comment about a story, not give a cradle to grave
analysis about it.

Ahem ! ... Now that I’m through giving some
nuts the lowdown on things, I will comment on
the stories myself. As I am a genius you can
count on it as being absolutely and positively
right. First, the topnotch stories are:

1. Revenge of the Vera.

2. Prey of the Space Falcon.

3. Mutiny in the Void.

The secondary ones are:

1. Assignment on Venus.

2. Phantom Out of Time (not such a hot end-
ing!).

3. Message from Mars.

And, last but least:

Thralls of the Endless Night. Except for the
lousy ending, and a sr^elly plot, I enjoyed it.

Rozen is very good and I enjoy Gifford (his
drawings and sometimes his humor). Leyden-
frost very good. Doolin, OK. All others fair.
Well, that’s about all. S’longl

Sincerely,

Al Weinstein,
Genius, etc.

TRIPLETS, NO LESS!

Wilmington Hall
Wilmington, California

Dear Editor:

Once in a rare while circumstances conspire
to produce a “Banner” issue, but unbelievable as
it seems, you have had three HI

Your May issue was memorable for three out-
standing stories in the order named:

Alcatraz of the Stanvays — De Pina and Flasse.

(The most adult story you’ve published.)

The Sandhound — Ross Rocklynne.

The Blue Behemoth — Leigh Brackett.

■rhen came the Fall Issue, and your story Prey
of the Space Falcon, Wilbur S. Peacock, which
I thought was the best you’ve written so far. And
now, in the Winter Issue, you give us the wonder-
fully written, unforgettably vivid :

The Star Guardsman — Albert De Pina.

For fine writing, for marvelous dialogue, and
fresh, exciting plots, Mr. De Pina is unrivalled.
His name on your mag’s enough for me to buy it.

But why, oh why, didn’t you have Rozen do
the cover? (Rozen has been ill. Ed.)

Very best wishes.

Bill Eepelding.

123

OUR “TWO IN ONE” FREAK!

1207 E. Henry Street

Dear Editor: Savannah, Georgia

Well, here I am again ready to give you my
opinion on the May and Fall issues. I have not
read Alcatraz of the Starways yet, so I’ll rate the
otlier stories without comparison to this one.

No. 1. The Sand Houttd.

No. 2. Meteor Makers.

No. 3. Menace of the Mist.

No. 4. Blue Behemoth.

No. 5. GriftePs Asteroid. Though tliere was
not a plot to this, it was amusing.

No. 6. Stranger from Space.

Paul’s pic. of the Meteor Makers takes first
place for the art.

Flarry Leydenfrost for the Sand Hound takes
second place.

Now for the Fall issue:

First comes Phantom Out of Time. A fine
story. Congratulations to Bond.

Following a close second comes Prey of the
Space Falcon.

Message from Mars is next I like this type
of story about pioneer rocket travel. Let’s have
more.

Thralls of the Endless Night is written very
nicely but let’s have some space travel stories by
Brackett some time.

I won’t rate the rest, just comment on them.

Assignment on Venus — Jacobi had a nice story
here, but he ruined it. He builds it up with a
dishonorary discharge and then it turns out
Simms is just given a rest. Phooey!

Revenge of the Vera — For a short story it was
very good. Too bad it wasn’t a novelet.

Mutiny in the Void — What was this? A space
filler? (I understand the scarcity of writers, but
you want our opinions.)

And now for the pics.

Rozen’s cover was excellent. This guy seems to
be monopolizing on the covers, but who’s com-
plainin’ ?

Bob Leydenfrost’s pics look too stiff. Why don’t
you get an artist who can compare with your
writing ?

Doolin ... is he still here? His pic on 81 is
above his average. At least as far as this issue
is concerned.

Rubimor could have done a little better job
on D. Morris’ leg. Otherwise it was pretty good.
Especially Rima.

"There must be a shortage of artists the way
you repeated Doolin and Leydenfrost. Oh well!
Do the best you can.

Another comment on the cover. Oh boy 1 1 !

Now, a suggestion or two. I’ll give you the
same suggestion I gave another magazine. (As
far as I’m concerned, P. S. and this rival maga-
zine are the only two on the market, tho’ I _ do
read another now and then). Look up a writer
■by the name of Bolling Branham and get him to
write for you.

Also, print a list of w'hat is _ considered by
popular vote your best stories since you came
out, then upon request print up separate copies
and sell them. If the paper situation won’t allow
you to do it now, think it over when it’s remedied.
(There’s a selfish motive behind this. I want
some old stories.)

On the cover again. Hot dog, what a gal!

Well, until next issue, pip pip, cheerio, ta-ta,
bye-bye, so long, good-bye and auf wiedersehn.

Sincerely,

Walt Kessel,
The Flying Freak.

124 PLACET STORIES

A N0VI(:E GRIPES!

Box 1094

Dickinson, N. Dak.

Dear Editor:

After reading the last five issues of the Vizi-
graph, I feel that it is impossible to control myself
any longer. What is the reason for printing such
ravings ? Is it because you receive no other
letters? Just one thing to be said in favor of
them: they make me gripe, my favorite occupa-
tion.

I admit I do enjoy some of the demented
babblings, but when half of the letters are knock-
ing poor Cummings it makes a person froth at
the mouth and in other ways degenerate to the
level of most of your cracked contributors. This
letter being one of said ways. Please note
“Termite.”

Now comes the horrible part. Ether, magnify-
ing glass, clothespin and table of contents. Start
dissecting.

No. 1 Phantom Out of Time. Wonderful story,
but it seems to me I’ve heard that Galactic Ghost
before, and anyway, he didn’t come out of time,
but from another world.

No. 2 Prey of the Space Falcon. When did
Jean betray the whole group? Good story, but
there were several unexplained events. Like
Falcon’s rescue while talking to Jean on the
vizi-beam.

No. 3 Thralls of the Endless Night. The writ-
ing was far better than the plot. Wes Kirk did
not betray the whole group to death, just the
officers.

No. 4 Mutiny in the Void. Well written, but
the comments in the table of contents are mis-
leading: Not stirring, but thrilling.

No. S Revenge of the Vera. Good story, but it
didn’t quite click.

No. 6. Message from Mars. It probably de-
serves more credit, but I am predjudiced against
Invasion from Mars stories.

Now about the wastes of paper, etc., that
the herd of Martian Monsters called readers peri-
odically send at you.

First about the Happy Genius. Happy he is,
and he keeps me that way, too. He’s right about
those serials, especially since you are a quarterly
again. I resent his exclusion of Cummings
from the star ish he mentions. After all he isn’t
so bad, you guys aren’t giving him a chance.
If Heiner meant that confusing remark to be a
compliment to Ray, all right, but otherwise you
won’t even have to hold my coat, such is the extent
of my holy wrath I

Carter says but one thing that I am especially
enthused about. That is his long-drawn-out com-
ments about Rocklynne’s plots. He, too, is perse-
cuting poor Cummings. What did he ever do to
those apes? In that and other ways he reminds
me of a very dear friend I had before I left town
quite hurriedly.

My dear Mr. Gray: Why must you abuse your
typewriter with nothing more on your alleged
mind than that? What is the wrong connected
with the word “little”? And maybe there is a
shortage of writers, but the harmless yelling we
do does nothing but keep the editors and writers
on their feet, instead of letting things slide. Any-
way it soothes the nerves of thousands of people,
even those of afore-mentioned editors and writers.

Chidsey had two glimmers of wisdom in an
otherwise salted mine : that remark about the
Ringers, and that last paragraph. By the way
just how did that last paragraph find its way in?

Please Private C, criticize the rest of the mag.
to your heart’s content in good, pure, blood, but
let the rest of us fight drivel with drivel.

Maybe Morrow is right, he and Private C., but
that wild raving makes a person feel at home, or
as if the little loonies were his personal friends,
so please let us keep it up. True especially if all
of your friends think you are a case for the state
nut -house just because you read this type of stuff.

There is just one complaint, aside from the
protection of Cummings, that means anything.
That is : why the goofy comments about the stor-
ies by the editor? For instance: Thralls of the
Endless Night. If Kirk was the “warrior” he
didn’t come. He had been there all his life.
Mutiny in the Void. “Oxygen generators” lead
one to think of complicated machines instead of
planets. A few more are listed in my opinion of
the stories.

The illustrations hit me as follows :

Excellent : Rozen’s cover, Doolin’s on page 73,
because of its accuracy. Good plus : Bob Leiden-
frost on page 3. The bartender is a little too
calm. Good: Bob Leidenfrost on pages S4-SS.
Good picture. Also Rubimor on page 91. Good
action, but it is a little different from the actual
story. Fair : Doolin and Doolin. Pages 45 and
31. Don’t know why these didn’t seem as good
as the rest, but they just didn’t.

Well, that seems to be enough steam for any
new engine to blow off on his first trip in the
good rocket-ship Planet, so out of action I go.

Sincerely,

Guy Trucano, Jr.,

The Lone Loco,

AND SO WE SAY:

Dear Trucano:

Was that steam — or hot air?

First, in regard to your comments. Be specific,
if knocking the plot of a story. Unintentionally,
by being vague, you accuse a writer of being a
plagiarist. And the Phantom came out of another
“space time.”

Jean betrayed the group when she betrayed the
Falcon, for he was the real intelligence of the Food
Smugglers. And another reading should clear up
the Falcon’s rescue; it’s there for you to see.

Wes Kirk did betray the entire group to death,
for his betrayal precipitated a battle, plus the
wasteful usage of the few heat stones still left.

Stirring — Thrilling . . . hmmm.

We’ll let the readers work you over a bit on
the rest of your letter. After all, you’re new,
you’ve got to earn your way.

Have a nice time — and ice is good for a bloody
beak.

Cordially,

The Editor.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Live Oak, Florida.

Dear Editor:

I swallowed my tobacco when the brazen-
throated horns blared their raucous, audacious
message :

“The Raym to ‘A’ Level at once! The Raym,
to ‘A’ Level, at once !”

Dully I went plodding down the corridor, eyes
half closed, hands clenching and unclenching,
swaying and muttering to myself in an orgy of
self-pity. I bumped off the blue walls, solAing
dismally. They had finally caught up with me I
I might have known better than to try to put
anything over on “Mr. Al”

THE VIZIGRAPH

“Raym reporting,” I alliterated into the
speaker disk. Two seconds later the elevator
doors slid open. They would remain open for
thirty seconds, and then, with or without me,
would rush back to “A” Level. I always waited
until the last instant before darting in. It gave
me a thrill to slide through the rapidly closing
doors, knowing that if I delayed a second the
doors would slide to and chop off a leg. “28, 29,”
I counted, then rushed. I terely got inside, and
then the pressure pinned me to the floor as the
elevator shot upward.

It slid open, and a green-walled corridor
stretched away. I bolted past Mr. A’s quarters,
hoping I could reach the soft drink stand beyond
before he expected me to appear. A Xeno-cola
would brace my nerves.

Guards materialized out of the wall. “Mr.
DeShane is waiting,” one of them said in a tough
voice.

Despondently I walked in. DeShane was seated
in his deep chair, the toggle switches banked
around him. His lids drooped to veil the lambent
flame in his eyes. His scarf, his robe, his blouse —
like something out of a Japanese print. “Storgan,
you may go,” DeShane purred to one of the
guards. “Rejmondo, do not try to touch the hem
of my robe.”

I frowned uncertainly. Surely I’d heard that
one before, somewhere. . . .

DeShane’s splayed fingers bit hard into his
legs as he stared up at me. “Rejmondo, we sent
you for a batch of Planet Stories in Fall, 1942,
by Hawkins 1 One of them you slipped into your
pants and smuggled in to your quarters. Why?”

“I liked Planet Stories then,” I mumbled.

DeShane’s right hand was curled in close to
his — well, it was curled in close, and the wicked
glitter of a Smelter gun shone there. Now
DeShane pointed this weapon at me. “Why don’t
you like Planet now ?” rasped the soothing whine
in his chill purr.

“They rejected a story I wrote,” I blubbered.
“I had it written out all nicely, with my name
and address in the upper right-hand comer. I
had corrected all but aliout three of the errors,
and they sent it back 1”

“And why do you suppose they sent it back?”
DeShane asked.

“They just don’t like stories by science-fiction
fans,” I said, blowing my nose on DeShane’s scarf.

DeShane leaped to his feet, swinging the
Smelter gun. The blur of gun steel was my only
warning. The guard walked over and stepped
on my neck. The expressionless mask had fallen
away from DeShane’s face, and hot color swept
his acquillne counternance as he pulled a small
hand microphone close ; “Raym to the prison
level I Two more guards !”

DeShane was setting fire to his ruined scarf as
I was dragged out. There in the prison it was
dark and unpleasant. I tried to hold hands with
a pretty dark-haired girl there in the next cell,
but she said : “I, too, am a DeShane 1 You must
hold my father’s hand if you hold minel” I
backed glumly into a corner. One of the guards
kindly tossed me a cony of the Fall, ’43 Planet.
My eyes bugged at the cover. Beautiful ! The
very best one I’ve seen on Planet yet! I rather
liked the stories in it, and the magazine as a
whole was refreshing. You have a distinctive
illustrator in the Leidenfrost boys, and . . .

“Up, bright-eyes !” roared the unpleasant voice
of a guard. “Up to ‘A’ Level again. I don’t
think you’ll be cornin’ back!”

125

I rose to my feet, and the guard unlocked the
door. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” I warned
him. “The readers may want more of this tripe.”

The door clicked behind me with an air of
finality. The guard shoved me along toward the
elevator. “Alfalfa DeShane don’t like guys who
go messin’ up his plans. I’d hate to be in your
shoes, Rejmondo!”

The elevator doors opened, then, with the
brazen note of a giant gong. The guard’s grin-
ning, ugly face vanished. Then the rapid ascent
stopped ; “A” Level awaited. The doors began
to slide open.

Sincerely yours,

Raymond Washington, Jr,

ONCE UPON A TIME—

Green Springs, Ohio

Dear Wilbur:

Once there was a Vizifan ... he loved the
Vizigraph with a surpassing, all-encompassing
love. A love, as a jerk witli a cultural leaning
would say, that was deevine. This fan wrote
sweet little notes to a certain very nasty editor
almost every issue of a certain pretty good maga-
zine. And the nasty editor printed these master-
pieces for other nasty people to read.

In fact one day, when the nasty editor was
feeling his nastiest, he said we’re going to let all
you kiddies VOTE on various letters . . . and cer-
tain masterpieces sent in by a wonderful fan. So
they did. And the fan wrote the best letter he
ever wrote, the nasty editor printed it, and the
other nasty fans voted.

Quotes — “I WUZ ROBBED” unquotes.

Awrite, you don’t like my letters ... so I’m
going right on writing till PS is perfect, or I
win a drawing. Of the two, may I observe, the
drawing looks much tlie closer.

Back to the Viz later. Right now, the duty of
the hour is to plaster the stories and pix with as
much evil smelling muck as we can dredge up.
All will be fairly (?) adjudged according to the
now (in) famous Hunter-Chidsey l-to-5 calibrated
tenths system.

The first thing we see is the cover ... by
Gross. Someone has to do this . . . why not me?
— Here goes ... it was a gross mistake.

Horrible what? I thot so too. To be honest,
the only thing corresponding to the story in it
are 1. ruined buildings, 2. a man, 3. a girl, A a
crystal B.E.M.

That outfit the dame is sporting may be sultry
. . . but it just AIN’T a tropical. Also, what are
the knives? Why not have the artists draw the
pix and have the writers weave around ’em?
Maybe the writers can see even if the artists
can’t read.

Cover gets 3.0.

C — COTDO — Kuttner . . . No comment neces-
sary. There will be enough drooling over this as
it is. Pretty good. 4.S.

TSG — A1 de Pina — ^Very much improvement
over Star of Pandur. This young man, like
Brackett, is going places. Wonder what collabo-
ration would do. 4.4.

COE — Nelse Bond — ^Not bad . . . but O for
another” Ultimate Salient. 4.2.

COC — MacCreigh — 3.5 — ^threadwom plot. Sad-
dest of bad men found to be FBI. IPP, or BEM
agent. Only amnesia angle saved this.

D — D — tWSP ... Ye Ed. — Mediocre at best.
3.1.

126 PLANET

B — Farrell — Anyone else remember IV inking
Lights of Mars? I thought of it immediately.
So did Lesser. Great minds — same thought.
Give it 2.S. Then take it.

The best illustration (except the cover, which
was good drawing, no matter what I said) was
the one for the Vizigraph. This is not only a
sarcastic remark. It’s the truth.

Since there will be little if any argument about
it, let’s quick hand the first prize to Mannion,
and pass along to guys who are mere geniuses.
Frankly we need a lot more Mannion and less of
the destructive mien evidenced by some of the
Vizi-writers. Possibly including myself among
them.

In regard to Cummings . . . why don’t his
supporters all get together and start a cummings-
fsmzine, or a cummingsfanclub or something of
the sort. That’s what I’d do if I was ecstatic
about the er . . . fellow.

This letter shall bear no pseudo . . . not even
my familiar I.Q. Chidsey. No, I await naming
(or maiming as the case may be).

By all means, have at least one off-trail story.
After all, there are four or five stories left for
those who don’t like ’em, and after all, stf is an
off-trail fiction in itself. When the day comes
that the formula-plot has taken stf, then it will
no longer be the stf I know and love. So — on
to off-trail ... to preserve science fiction.

The Gifford letter was not the Giff of yore^
who had the epic battle with Asenion. Mayhap
because this time he had no one to cross rapiers
with. This must be remedied. Gifford is a
Grazilfnic. That, Guy, is an insult of the great-
est magnitude.

Re. your query, or rather statement that Gluck-
stein was misspelled. If that’s all that was mis-
spelled then, I thank the editor who must have
labored long over it.

I think your statement that mine was the best
(O joy) till I added the Jap story (I’ve heard
it but once) was slightly unfair. The same mate-
rial was there after I added the story. Ah, well
. . . Gifford, by the way cops second place.

We saw, this time, a very caustic Carter.
Another poison pen ... pal?

Connell, because no one else, I suppose, will
care for it. I liked it, tho. He is third. I
won’t tell my old maid story ’cause my Jappo
got torpedoed (faint outline of a joke there).

Yours,

J. Franklin Chidsey,

LONGER LONGER!

Rt. 2 Box 529
Merced, California

Dear Editor:

Wonderful! Magnif I . . . Rozen’s best I Start-
ing with the cover and working inward, here
goes for a quick snort into the pulsating realm of
pseudo-science . . . nuts I What am I turning
into — a Looney Lad?

Well, anything for a diversion. Anyhow . . .
the cover was tops . . . and any of these happy
grouches who say different have my personal
scorn to contend with. Rozen is improving over
his earlier Planet paintings. Yep, a future Ley-
denfrost.

And now, the interior. Prey of the Space
Falcon — fair. Peacock’s done better. So has
Leyden frost. '

Bond hit the jackpot on Phantom 0%t of Time.

STORIES

Well done, N. S. Good pic too. The guard with
the frog-sticker must not appreciate beauty.

Message from Mars ... a flowery tale. Doo-
lin’s OK.

Thralls of the Endless Night . . . dull at first
but better toward the end. Ah — this pic made up
for the one on page 2 & 3 . . . doncha think?

Mutiny in the Void . . . STUNK. As for the
illustration — looks like an abandoned subway.

Assignment on Venus ... a good short. Doolin
is in a rut.

Revenge of the Vera . . . good, but couldn’t the
hero have filled the Vera with atomic explosive
or such? Then, when the pirate ship rammed
her . . . BOOM ! Doolin again . . . but good.

And now, my pet subject (and everybody
else’s) the Viz. Longer-Longer t A plea for more
space for us happy little geniuses (and morons)
(Lesser, take note!)

As for the letter sigpiatures . . . hah 1 The Flying
Freak and The Zwilnik indeed! Just call me the
Dgxgmfpet !

Next, after batting the Viz about, comes the
Feature Flash. So Conover was a soda jerk . . .
hmm. . . .

Now another plea. Puhleez, let’s have more
departments. Say ... a debate page or articles
or fan publication reviews. And how about more
shorts. They break up the monotony of the
longer novels.

Sorry that Planet’s going quarterly again.
■»“#!!&! the war!

Fondly, I watch the warden glam the type-
writer into its case and hurry out into the corri-
dor of the Brooklyn Home for the Unbalanced in
answer to the screaming of a Lesser patient in the
next ward.

Yours for a Greater Planet,

Dick Comstock,
DGXGMFPET.

NO COMPARISON!

P. O. Box 18
So. Norwalk, Ct.

De:ar Editor:

The Winter issue of Planet (just out) does not
compare with previous issues as to the average
quality of its ccmtents, with one Marvelous ex-
ception, and that is the Star Guardsman. When
I read it, I couldn’t believe my eyes ! Since you
featured something else for the lead novel, I
pounced with joy on Mr. Kuttner’s Crypt City of
the Deathless One, but I didn’t have to go far
before I began to wonder whether Mr. Kuttner
was losing his grip or whether I was getting Al-
mighty tired of the everlasting formula of Gore
and more Gore and cannibal planets and plaques
that threaten the earth, etc. Gosh! it’s getting
so that some authors don’t even care how slop-
pily they write their stories — however we can
always blame it on the war. Now, in my opinion,
the second novel. The Star Guardsman, is worth
the price of the magazine alone. It’s the best
example of an exciting, livable, suspenseful tale,
believable throughout, that I have ever read in
Planet. And tlie wonder of wonders he accom-
plishes more dramatic situations than all the other
writers put together with a minimum of action.
If you don’t hang on to this author, I hope they
draft you!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Q. F. Punick.

THE YiZIGRAPH

WE DOOD IT!

225 Second St.

California, Pennsylvania.

Dear Editor:

How was it accomplished? You “dood" it A
ringer, and I don’t mean that sort of tripe that
you buy from Gifford : or do you get it for free ?
Perhaps he pays you to use it, eh?

The Fall ish was superb. Really a classic.
Keep up the good work and I’ll keep writing
letters like this. If I have something to praise I
surely can be emphatic in dishing it out, but if
you once fall down. I’ll digress to the point of
being nasty. Is it a bargain? We’ll see.

Wherever D. B. Thompson happens to be I
hope he has opportunity to read this. He will
enjoy the conglomeration of bananas, pears and
so forth.

THE COVER; Rozen is becoming better,
and that really is saying something. 'The back-
ground surprised me to the point that I just had
to sit quiet for awhile after seeing it on tlie stand.
The proprietor of the book shop helped me to my
feet and after taking two dimes from my pocket
at my request, (the shock seemed to have ren-
dered my arms useless) guided me to the door and
saw that I cross tlie street safely. The gal is
delish ; the guy, a real guy. The amount of detail,
something to tell the grandchildren of. All in
all, I must say that this fellow does wonderful
work. Again roses to Rozin.

THE INTERIOR ART:

Bob Leidenfrost: Mmmmmm, I don’t really
know just what comment to make in this instance.
His humans are all right but as to alien beings—
not so hot. Shading — he seems not to know tlie
meaning of the word. Rubimor should do the
pics for your stories, Ed, they rate something
better than that which was used for "Prey. . . ."

Doolin still dood’lin, eh? I’m not prejudiced,
but I can’t like this fellow’s work. One thing
I will say is that he evidently reads the story
before illustrating. That’s more than can be
said of some others. Now the pic on p. 45 is a
little better. Perhaps he will be all right if he
puts his best into things as he evidently did with
this one.

GIFFORD : _ (3$%— )$it?<f@*"#% (@&$).

Now Bob’s piece on pp. 54-5 is not bad a-tall. I
believe he could pen out a beauteous dame if he
concentrated.

Page 72 ; Doolin again. Well Page 81 ;

Doolin again. Well

And now to something that should rate more
tlian I have time or space for. Rubimor, the
master. This fellow is great. How about an ish
with pics exclusively by Rubimor? Ah, I know
it would be next to impossible, but wouldn’t it be
great, tho? If I’d happen to win an original
(happy thought). I’d appreciate this one even if it
is in the wrong issue.

And so to the yarns. Bond takes the lead for
Phantom Out of Time. For once the best story
was illustrated with the best drawing.

Simak rates second for Message from Mars, a
swell novelet

I’ve put you, Ed, in third place for Prey of the
Space Falcon. You did a nice bit here. You
know you forgot the P.S. on my last letter. I
mentioned that you absolutely should use your true
moniker on your stories. They’re good enough
that you needn’t be ashamed of them.

Fourth place to Miss Brackett for Thralls of
the Endless Night.

Assignment on Venus by Jacobi: Not too
good, but rather pleasant reading.

127

Hasse fell off on Revenge of the Vera. His
last two yarns haven’t been so good. I have one
of his, an original typing, that is one of the best
he ever wrote. It was to be used in Fanta, a fan
mag, which the war effort has held up. You all
might yet get to glom it, I hope.

Tanner, for Mutiny in the Void gets bananas.
Punk, and this one spoiled the whole islu Watch
it, Ed, you’ll put out a perfect ish yet.

Now for a little drivel: Where is Bok? I
might ask him the same question. Has Finlay
died or joined the forces? Is Eron, whoever he
is, still illustrating? More covers like that on the
Fall book. Keep Rubimor (and send me one of
his pics when I rate unless otherwise informed).

Vote No. One for Paul Carter. He knows a
bad story when he reads one. Second to
“Amateur” Fredersdorff for her very short letter.
I hate anyone to write long letters like this one
of mine. Third to DePina. He writes better
letters than he does stories. And so for this time,
so long — and you?

Sincerely,

V. R. Heiner,

The Zwilnik.

FOX AIN'T KIDDING!

460 Orchard St.,
Rahway, N. J.

Dear Editor:

I do not have a typewriter so I am printing
this letter (?).

I was walking into a newsstand a few months
ago and feasted me eyes on a copy of Jungle
Stories. All of a sudden an indignant green and
orange cover smacked me in the face. I looked
down and saw a strange sight (no, it wasn’t you.
Mister Lesser) an orange B.E.M. was hanging
on to the P in Planet. So just for a noble experi-
ment I plunked down my twenty cents and carried
out your mag. The B.E.M. leaped from his perch
and went after tlie heroine again. (Now I know
how you sell Planict.)

Now for the fall (and I ain’t kidding) lineup.
Foist, the cover, I always like Planet covers.
This one was a pip (I’m glad Rozen quit the
Shadow. He wasn’t good at all.)

Now for the stories. First place goes to:

1. Prey of the Space Falcon — Swell scientific
adventure novel. Should have been longer. Your
best, Mr. Peacock. Pic. — ^Leidenfrost Need I
say more.

2. Phantom Out of Time — Would have easily
been first if the ending had lieen better. I wanted
Dirk to marry Rima, doggone it! Pic. — Rubi-
mor’s an awful lot like Alex Raymond, isn’t
he? (Hmmmm.)

3. Thralls of the Endless Night — But where
did the title come from? Pic. — Swell. Finlay and
B. L. are my favorites.

4. Revenge of the Vera and Assignment on
Venus tied for fourth place. Both were good.'
Doolin’s pictures were excellent for both.

5. Message from Mars— Was fair. Would have
taken third place if Kubilius had written it. Pic,
— Doolin didn’t do so good for this one.

6. Mutiny in the Void — Terrible. Same_ thing
for the illustration, and Tanner my favorite au-
thor too.j CTut tut.)

May I 'make a suggestion? Get Henry Kuttner
and C. L. ‘Moore to do a story for you.

Sincerely,

Geo. Fox,

The Jersey Bounce.

128 PLANET

DER ZWILNIK’S FACE!

1299 California Street

San Francisco, Calif.

Sorrowful Editor:

Heiner’s obviously poor attempts at construc-
tive intelligent criticism are no small failure — as
I fully intend to prove. Every remark backfires
very badly and embarrassingly in Zwilnik’s (how
literal!) face. His mediocre and clumsily ex-
pressed opinions are striking — but only because
of an excess of exclamation points. See, I have
them on my typewriter, too 1! ! 1!

“A little more science would not hurt Planet
in the least.” I definitely disagree with him
there; I’ll show you. On the cover of each
Planet we sight a small blurb that reads :
“Strange adventures on other worlds — the uni-
verse of future centuries.” Can see no mention
of heavy science here. Said blurb infers that the
book contains tales about spaceships, ray-guns,
hems, and wenches, but wliat in hell is wrong
with that? A spaceship and alt the other afore-
mentioned articles compose an author’s concep-
tion of the future worlds; must he insert a de-
tailed explanation on each article as he brings it
into the plot? I say no, damn it! The author is
writing the story from the standpoint that he was
there — so quite naturally the so-called super sci-
ence gadgets are commonplace to him, tilings that
need no explaining. They are accepted facts.

The story is as good as it reads, and no amount
of scientific drivel is going to make it science fic-
tion. And it is drivel, no matter how cleverly
done, because it is fiction. My only possible com-
plaint concerning your stories is that they are at
times not logical enough for stf, but I don’t
expect logic from Planet — and so don’t kick
about it. All this, however, is incidental. I enjoy
your mag, its freshness is enticing to my senses,
and while I do not, in the slightest, expect the
writing found in Campbell’s twins I am always
delighted by the familiar atmosphere.

To get on to another remark of Heiner’s ; fan-
tasy, when well handled, can be used, but it does
not fit in with the stereotyped science fiction being
accepted today. Occasionally one is slipped under
the line, and ’tis usually very rank.

I fear that if lleiner received the “straight
fiction” with a scientific background he asks for,
he would drop your mag like the proverbial hot
potato — and I don’t believe anyone could blame
him. He is suggesting, in no uncertain terms,
that you publish westerns with a futuristic set-
ting — which does not coincide with his previous
remarks. “Straight fiction” suggests and de-
mands orthodox fiction, and I hope Heiner doesn’t
want that — I know I don’t.

But I see no reason why The Zwilnik should
take up the bulk of this letter, he means nothing
to me, I can take him or leave him, and I intend
to do the latter immediately. The current issue
of Planet is so much more interesting than the
dull witticisms of Mr. Heiner.

I nominate Prey of the Space Falcon as one of
the ten best of the year. Excellent action with
a dash of correctly sprinkled sex — and out of the
feeder it comes. And in contrast to one of my
previous statements, excellent, logical, plot. We
have, of course, the battle between the Falcon

STORIES

and the Administrators ; then we have the sec-
ondary, but quite essential, search for the smoth-
alene smugglers. 'Very nice, Mr. Peacock, con-
gratulations are in order. The plot is ancient
(yes, yes, we know, that phrase has become a
stock one with almost all fans), but this pirate
yarn is refreshing. Instead of being told from
the brawny, husky, not too bright side, we find
an intelligent narrator who has no intention of
hacking his story up by dramatizing every mo-
ment. Hmmmmm, I hope you did not break
any writer’s laws, Wilbur. Using the 10 to 1
system. I’d give this

Was surprised at Bond’s Phantom out of Time,
Nelson, usually very careful and wary, treads on
his own toes too damn often here to suit me. The
plot suffers badly from lack of suspense and poor
drama in spots. No new twists can I discover,
just a rehash. 7- Illustration was nice and sexy,
with a bit of time and study Rubimor might de-
velop a rather distinctive style. Shows traces
already of influence by Thorp — ^who was rapidly
becoming a second Cartier.

Message from Mars was nothing more than a
flash tw'ist story, but just the same, I enjoyed
reading it. ’Twon’t linger in the memory any
further than tomorrow’s breakfast, but the idea
of an invasion under our noses — and eyes — fasci-
nated me. One of Simak’s poorest, neverthelsss
worth 61 / 2 .

Tanner’s bit was amusing, he chose an interest-
ing character to save a ship — even if he did have
to- lose the crew. The idea of the tooth powder
seems slightly far-fetched, but my knowledge of
chemistry is nil, so I’ll shut up. Syi. Doolin,
when I first saw his work, looked quite promising.
But now he looks quite the other way. Please,
ed, no more. He evidently knows that a man has
two arms, two legs, one head, and one body — ^but
beyond that his knowledge and imagination runs
dry; wet your whistle, Doolin, and do a few
drawings like the new contents page heading.
(Doolin did that job. Ed.)

The cover is something to pant about. Rozen
shows signs of becoming the new Petty of the
Pulps. I can see why the fellow is hanging on
so tightly with that far away look in his eye.
He may be shooting at something, but his mind is
on other things. And frankly, mine would be too.
Exceptional expression, give the cover a 10 .

About the letters :

Marlow receives 1st place because of the vari-
ous intelligent statements scattered throughout his
letter. Also for a few bits of humor, whether
intended as so or not.

Grey — er — Groy gets second, heaven knows
why, unless it was for the brief-brief-short found
on page 122 about the poet and the Grafus. I,
too, would like to know-how-in-hell that got in.
Mebbe Jim will let us in on his private joke some
day — ^let’s hope not. The unveiling might prove
disastrous to his reputation.

Oh_ hell ; Lesser has to get his just dues, so
let him have third. He likes to capitalize all
words that he can — ^poor stunt.

And that, ed, closes the first letter to the Viz,
my first, at any rate. I fully intend (uh-oh, repe-
tition of phrase) to be with you again.

Good reading.

Bill "Watson.

No - ATLAS

Makes Muscles Grow

Will You Let
Me PROVE
I Can Moke
YOU a WeiK iMmr/

CHARLES

ATLAS

Awarded the title
of "The World’s
Most Perfectly
Developed Man"
in international
contest — in com-
petition with ALL
men whoi would
consent to appear
against him.

This is a recent
photo of Charles
Atlas showing
how he looks to-
day. This is not a
studio picture but
an actual un-
touched snap-
shot.

Here’sWhatOnlylSMinutesaDayCan Do ForYou

I DON’T care how old or young you are,
or how ashamed of your present physi-
cal condition you may be. If you can
simply raise your arm and flex it I can add
SOLID MUSCLE to your biceps — yes, on
each arm — in double-quick time! Only 15
minutes a day — right in your own home — is
all the time I ask of you! And there’s no
cost if I fail.

I can broaden your shoulders, strengthen
your back, develop your whole muscular sys-
tem INSIDE and OUTSIDE! I can add
inches to your chest, give you a vise-like
grip, make those legs of yours lithe and
powerful. I can shoot new strength into
your old backbone, exercise those inner
organs, help you cram your body so full of
pep, vigor and red-blooded vitality that yOu
won’t feel there’s even "standing room" left
for weakness and that lazy feeling! Before
I get through with you I’ll have your whole
frame "measured" to a nice, new, beautiful
suit of muscle!

What’s My Secret?

^‘Dynamic Tension!’^ That’s the ticket!
The identical natural method that I myself
developed to change • my body from the
scrawny, skinny-chested weakling I was
at 17 to my present super-man physique !
Thousands of other fellows are becoming
marvelous physical specimens — my way. I
give you no gadgets or contraptions to fo6l
with. When you have learned to develop

your strength through “DynamiG Ten-
sioTij^^ you can laugh at artiflcial mus-
cle-makers. You simply utilize the
DORMANT muscle-power in your own
God-given body — watch it increase and
multiply double-quick into solid LIVE
MUSCLE.

My method — “Dynamic Tension’* —
will turn the trick for you. No theory
— every exercise is practical. And, man,
so easy! Spend only 15 minutes a day
in your own home. From the very start
you’ll be using my method of “Dynamic
Tension’* almost unconsciously
every minute of the day — walking,
bending over, etc. — to BUILD
MUSCLE and VITALITY.

FREE BOOK

"Everlasting Health
and Strength"

In it I talk to you in straight-
from - the - shoulder language.
Packed with inspirational pic-
tures of myself and pupils — fel-
lows who became NEW MEN in
strength, my way. Let me show
you what I can do for you! For
a real thrill, send for this book
today. AT ONCE. CHARLES
ATLAS. Dept. 312A. 115 East
23rd St., New York 10, N. Y.

r

I

I

I

I

I

L

CHARLES ATLAS. Dept. 312A

115 E. 23rd Street, New York 10. N. Y.

I want the proof that your system of “Dynamic
Tension” will help make a New Man of me — give me
a healthy, husky body and big muscular develop-
ment. Send me your free book, "Everlasting Health
and Strength."

Name

(Please print or write plainly)

City.

State

□ Check here if under 16 for Booklet A.

LET ME START SHOWING YOU RESULTS JLIKE THESE

5 inche

of new

Muscle

*'My arms increased
1V2"» chest 2V2"f
forearm — C.

, W. Va.

/

What a #
^jdifference;

••Have

put 31/2"
on chest
(normal) and
21/2" expanded.'*
— F. S., N. Y.

For quick results
mend
CHARLES
ATLAS

“Am sending snapshot
snowing wonderful prog-
r«. W. G., N. J.

EXTRA PAY!^
IN ARMY,

, NAVY, TOO

Men likely to go int»
military service, soldiers',
sailors, marines, should
mail the Coujjon nowl
Learning Kadio helps Sei-v-
ice men get extra rank,
extra prestige, more in-
teresting duties, MUCH
HIGHER PAY. Also, pre-
, pares for goot’ Radio gobs.

Good Fon Both

64 PAGE BOOK
SAMPLE LESSON

fREl

J. E, SMITH, President, Dept. 4AG,

National Radio Institute, Washington 9, D. C.

Mail me FKEB without obligation. Sample Lesson and 64-page : Look,
“Win Rich Rewards in Radio.’* (No salesman will call. Write plainly.)

Name Age.

Address

City.

State iFH

0HO

rfii*

A ,1* I t®

TEOMIfl**

J. E. SMITH, President
National Radio Institute
Estabiished 29 Years
He has directed the training of
more men for the Radio Indus-
try than anyone else.

beaiudHI

TheseMm

$200 a Month
in Own
Business

"For several
years 1 have
been in busi-
ness for my-
self making
around $200 a month. Busi-
ness has steadily Increrg^d.
I have N.R.I. to thank’for
my start in this field.’*
ARLIE J. PROEHNER, 300
W. Texas Ave,, Goose Creek,
Texas.

$5 to $10 Week in Spare
Time

“I am e n -
jed in spare
me Radio
work. I average
from $5 to $10
a week. I often
wished that I
had enrolled
sooner. All this . I
extra money
sure does come
in handy.” THEODORE K.
DuBREE, Horsham, Pa.

Lieutenant in Signal Corps

“I cannot di-
vulge any in-
formation as to
m>’ type of
wfirk hut I can
say that N.R.I
training is com-
ing in mighty
handy these
days.” RICH-
ARD W. AN-
fVtldress omitted
reasons.)

More Radio Technicians and OperatoTs
Now Make $50 a Week Thtan Ever Before

I will send you a sample Lesson, “Getting ac-
Quainted with Receiver l^rvici^,** to show you
how practical it is to train Radio at home
in spare time. It’s a valuable ifes'sQii. Study it —
keep it — uae it — without obligation! And with this
Lesson I'll send my 64-page] illustrated book,
"Win Rich Rewards in Radio.” '. Jt describes many
fascinating jobs Radio offers, e?§)lains how N.R.I.
trains you at home for good pajj Radiol

Big Demand Now for Wfell-Tralned
Radio Technicians, dP^TAtors

There’s a big shortage today of capable Radio
Technicians and Oi>eralors. Fixiijg Radios pays bet-
ter now than for years. With new Radios out of
production, fixing old sets, which were formerly
traded in. adds greatly to the normal number of
servicing jobs.

Broadcasting .Stations. Aviation and Police Radio,
and other Radio brai’ches are sciwmblii'g for Ppera-
tors and Technicians. Radio Makofacturers. now
working on Goveriitnent orders for Radio etjuip-
menti employ tra::-.rti men. The Government too
needs huiidreds o: comi>etenc civilian and enlisted
Radio men and women. Then, think of the NEW
jolts that Television, Electronics and other Radio
developments will opea after the war.

Many Beginners Soon Make $5, $10
a Week EXTRA in Spare Time

The moment you enroll for my Course T start
sending you EXTRA MONEY JOB SHEETS that
siiow how to earn EXTRA money fixing Radios.
Many make S.'S, $10 a week EXTRA in spare time
tvhile still learning. I .send you SIX big kits of
real Radio parts. You LEARN Radio fundamentals
from my lessons — PRACTICE what you learn by
building tyiiical circuits like those illustrated on
this page— PROVE what you learn by interesting
tests on the circuits you build.

Mail Coupon For Free Lesson and Book

riie opportunity the war has given beginners to
got started in Radio may never be repeated. So
take the first step at once. Get my FREE Lesson
and 64-page, illustrated book. No obligation— no
salesman will call. Just mail coupon in an en-
velope or paste it on a penny postal. — ^J. E. SMITH,
President, Dept. 4AG, National Radio institute
Washington 9t D. C.

Ym BdM These And Many
Other Radio Circuits
WUh Kits I Supply!

By the time you've conquered 60 sets
of Experiments with Radio Parts I
supply — have made hundreds of meas-
urements and adjustments — you'll have
had valuable PRACTICAE experience.

You build this
SUPERHETERO-
DYNE CIRCUIT con-
taining a pre - se-
lector o.scillator-
mixer-first detector,
i.f. stage, diode-
detector-a.v.c. stage
and audio stage.
It will bring in
.••cal and distant
stations. Get the
thrill of learning
at home evenings
in spare time w’hilo
you put the set
through fascinating
tests!

You build this
MEASURING I N -
STRUMENT yourself
early in the Course,
useful for practical
Radio work on
neighborhood R a •
dios to pick up EX-
TRA spare time
money. It is a vac-
uum tube multime-
ter, meastires a.c.,
d.c. and r.f. volts,
d.c. currents, r e -
sistance, receiver
output.

Building this A.
M. SBGNAL G E N-
ERATOR will give
you valuable exper-
i e n c e . Provides
amplitude - modulat-
ed signals for test
and experimental
purposes.